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1800 * 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 











v v 




























THE SHINING MOUNTAINS 






■ 








































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I 





















































































The Ute was already untying the elk 







































The Shining Mountains 

By 

LULITA CRAWFORD PRITCHETT 



JUNIOR PRESS BOOKS 

albertXwh itman 

Cr' 4<CO 
CHICAGO 
1939 


©ci A 




SV, 



To 

MY MOTHER 
who kept a little red diary 


Copyright, 1939, by 
Lulita Crawford Pritchett 

Printed in the U.S.A. 


SEP 22 1939 


if- 


132258 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


Page 

Cherry Creek Camp . 15 

The Top of the World........ 34 

A Warning... 51 

A Strange Discovery... 65 

Unwelcome Guests . 81 

Pa Has a Hankering. 94 

Trails West . ...105 

On to the Yampa...1._____...116 

Where Is Danny? . 130 

The Prospector’s Secret.............144 

Tom Plays a Joke.155 

Ma Washes Everything.168 

Good Medicine.180 

Jokum .194 

Swap Pony for Papoose.209 

Preparations for Winter . 218 

A White World.231 

The Yampa’s Children . 243 

The Map of the Gold.259 

Little Bear Heap Tell Um...:...272 

The Shining Mountains.284 























FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS 


COLOR PLATES 


Page 

The Ute was already untying the elk.Frontispiece 

Ma flicked them with the whip.Facing page 15 


BLACK AND WHITE PLATES 

Page 


The men rode horses while the squaws traipsed 

cheerfully behind . 23 

Tom marched manfully to the seat. 27 

He sprang onto Hute’s horse. 41 

Most of the side finally came loose. 69 

She landed a wallop smack in his ugly face. 87 

Uncle Henry had to grab her by the arms and pull.135 

He thrust the bottle under Two Feathers’ nose.161 

After them rode an Indian.185 

The squaw wanted the family to stay and eat.199 

He came by the cabin to give Margie the old 

daguerreotype .-227 

This was fun—planting the garden on the house.249 

He shook his fist in the boy’s face.275 









































































































































































Ma flicked them with the whip 























































Chapter One 

CHERRY CREEK CAMP 

T HERE was great bustle and excitement in the camp 
on Cherry Creek that June morning, 1874. For 
three days the nine wagonloads of people that had 
come across the plains together had rested here on the out" 
skirts of Denver while the men made inquiries about the 
country. Now the time was coming when the travelers must 
separate. Tomorrow the Reed family would go south to- 
ward Pike’s Peak where they had heard there was good farm 
land. Will Yankee would take his family up Clear Creek 
to the town of Empire. Most of the young bachelors of the 
party were going with him to find work in the mines. The 
Crawfords intended to head northwest and keep right on 
going till they got across the Rocky Mountains to new coun- 
try on the other side. 

The children, bound to make every moment count, had 
been playing hide-and-seek among the cottonwoods, whoop¬ 
ing and hollering like a bunch of Apaches. Out of breath, 
they dropped down on the warm sand to rest and grew 
suddenly solemn. 

“This is the last day we’ll be together,’’ sighed thirteen- 
year-old Margie Crawford, hunching her knees under her 
chin and gazing with thoughtful brown eyes at a flock of 
wind clouds that scurried across the wide prairie sky. “Seems 
to me it’s been about a year since we left Missouri, though 
I know it’s only five weeks.’’ 


IS 


i6 


The Shining Mountains 


“Wisht we were all going to the same place," said Tom, 
her brother, halfheartedly rumpling up the fur of Ponto, 
the yellow shepherd pup. Tom was eleven and growing 
so fast that even the clothes which had fitted him when 
they left the farm looked a little skimpy now. His round 
freckled face was wistful. “Why ’nt the rest of you persuade 
your folks to come with us over the range?" 

“Not me!" declared Stowell Yankee his cousin, sprawling 
his long length in the shade. “There ain't even a road! 1 
don’t see how you can get over." 

“There’s the beginnings of a road," argued Tom. “Mr. 
J. Q. Rollins is buildin’ it. Pa found out about it from one 
of the workmen who was down for supplies." 

“Oh, I guess we’ll get over all right," said Margie. “Even 
if we have to make a road ourselves. Ma says when, Pa sets 
out to do a thing he usually does it. And Uncle Henry 
Crawford and Hute Richardson are going with us to help." 

“The Ute Indians live across the range," shivered little 
Janey Reed. “I’ve heard tell they’re awful fierce. Ain’t you 
scared?" 

“Naw," said Tom. “7 'm not. Just the same we’re goin’ 
to have our pictures took case we do get scalped. Ma pep 
suaded Pa, and we’re goin’ to Denver City soon as he gets 
home." 

Pa had gone that morning to Mr. Heywood’s ranch to 
drive in eight cows and heifers for which he had traded the 
hack and some extra horses. Hute and Uncle Henry had 
gone with him. 



Cherry Creek Camp 


i7 


“Once when I was little I had my picture taken,” said 
Margie, “but I can’t remember much about it.” 

“Fve had two tintypes made,” remarked Cousin Mary 
Ann Yankee, wise in experience. She spread her skirts 
young lady fashion and continued, “They’re awful tiresome. 
You’ve got to sit and sit and pose and look pretty—” 

“Oh, dear,” cried the younger girl, suddenly mindful of 
her own looks, “has the wind got all the curl out of my 
hair?” Anxiously she examined a lock. She was accustomed 
to wear two long braids, but on special occasions like today 
she roached her front hair back with a comb and let the rest 
hang loose over her shoulders. 

“It is tolerable straight,” admitted her cousin. 

“And I did mean to look pretty!” wailed Margie. “I 
braided it tight as I could last night so it would be frizzed.” 

“I don’t reckon the Utes’d want Margie’s hair.” Tom 
switched the subject back to Indians. “It’s just plain brown. 
But they’d go for red hair like mine and Danny’s. Uncle 
Henry said so. We may have to fight the Utes. I’d sooner 
fight an Indian than a grimly bear. I’ve heard grizzlies are 
mean as mean! And the mountains are full of lions and 
carcajous and bobcats.” 

Three'year'old Danny, the youngest of the Crawfords, 
had been playing with Tobe, the big gray striped cat that 
had come all the way from Missouri in the wagon train. 
Now he clambered into his sister’s lap and hid his tearful, 
puckered face in her dress. 

“Tom, shame on you!” scolded Margie. “There, Danny, 
there! Don’t you care. Pa wouldn't let anything hurt us! 



i8 


The Shining Mountains 


Maybe well see some funny Indian papooses and we might 
get a bear cub for a pet. I read a story about a man once—” 

“What do you s'pose the mountains look like close up?” 
Janey Reed interrupted curiously, peering through an open" 
ing in the trees toward the far blue wall of the range. 

“Rocky, of course,” said Stowell. “They're called the 
Rocky Mountains, aren't they?” 

“I know a nicer name.” Margie cradled the baby in her 
arms. Through dreamy eyes she studied the broken outline 
of the peaks and the mysterious shadow"creased ridges. 
“Old-time explorers used to call them the Shining Moun" 
tains. Pa read that in the Missouri Republican .” 

“They don't look shiny to me,” said Stowell, sitting up 
and frowning. 

“Well, anyway that's what the newspaper said. It was 
just quoting these old travelers. They thought the mountain" 
sides were covered with crystals that sparkled so bright 
you could see them a long way off. And they believed there 
was gold and silver and precious stones almost anywhere 
you looked.” 

“Huh! Lots o' folks that came West to find gold got 
fooled. 'Course there's some places like Empire—" 

“I wish you were coming to Empire,” interrupted Mary 
Ann. “I can't for the life of me see why Uncle Jimmy 
wants to cross the range. Nobody civilised lives over 
there!” 

“Pa's got a roving disposition,” explained Margie. How 
many times she had heard Ma say that! “I reckon all us 
Crawfords have a roving disposition. Honest, I’m dying to 



Cherry Creek Camp 


19 


see what’s on the other side of those mountains. It was 
that piece in the Missouri Republican that made us want to 
come. The reporter was sent out here by the newspaper to 
learn about the country. He told what those old-time ex- 
plorers thought and then he told how he climbed the range 
himself and looked down on the western slope. What he 
saw must have been grand! Of course, he couldn’t begin to 
see it all. Pa says likely there are valleys and rivers nobody 
knows anything about—only the Indians and a few old 
trappers. I hunted in my geography and the whole north' 
west comer of Colorado Territory is just a blank space.” 

“We aim to find out what’s there,” added Tom. “Then 
we’ll stake a claim in the best place and build a town all 
our own. You can come visit us and—” 

“Yooo'hoooo!” 

That was Ma calling. Tom scrambled to his feet. “Reckon 
Pa’s back. Come on!” 

Margie dumped Danny from her lap and reached her 
hand out to him. “We’d better run!” she advised. “Ma 
sounds like hurry !” 

The three of them raced for the Crawford tent, the 
others following. Ma was waiting in her best blue poplin. 
Aunt Sally Yankee was there, too, and Mrs. Reed. Ma 
looked flushed and very determined about something. She 
was a small, plump person with fair girlish face and eyes 
that could be as merry as Tom’s. Today they weren’t merry. 
They were dark and full of business. 

“I’ve set out a snack to eat, children. As soon as you’ve 
finished we’re going to town.” 



20 


The Shining Mountains 


“Where’s Pa?’’ 

“He hasn’t come yet and I’ve no mind to wait. Now, eat 
your dinner, for you can’t go unless you do.’’ 

“If you ask me,’’ said Aunt Sally tartly, “I think this 
going to town is a lot of nonsense!’’ Aunt Sally was Ma’s 
older sister and was given to speaking out. “At least, 
Emerine, you ought to wait till one of the men comes to 
drive for you.’’ 

Ma’s head jerked up. “I can drive well enough, Sally. 
I’ve already hitched the mules to the small wagon, as you 
see. And I’m sure I can find the picture place. I saw it 
yesterday when I went with Jimmy to buy provisions.’’ 

“But in a strange town, and frontier, too!’’ Mrs. Reed’s 
broad motherly face looked doubtful. 

“Pa says Denver’s settled now,’’ declared Tom, trying to 
cram all his biscuit into his mouth at once. 

“I’d wait for Jimmy if it wasn’t for those clouds coming 
up,’’ said Ma worriedly. “But good pictures can’t be made 
unless the sun shines.’’ 

Aunt Sally folded her lips in a prim, severe line. “I’m 
sure we're going to need every cent we have to keep clothes 
on our backs, what with setting up housekeeping and all. 
To my notion it’s a poor time to spend money on pictures.’’ 

Ma’s chin trembled just a trifle and she said very fast, 
“No telling when we’ll ever see a settlement again and I 
want the children’s grandparents to have something to re' 
member them by!’’ She talked as though they might never 
come back from over the mountains! 

Aunt Sally and Mrs. Reed went off to get dinner for their 



Cherry Creek Camp 


21 


own children. Danny was the only one of the Crawfords 
who displayed any interest in eating. Margie and Tom were 
so excited they had hard work to finish their meal. 

“What's it feel like when they take your picture?" mum' 
bled Tom easing down the last bite with a gulp of milk. 

“Hurry, son! Wash your face! Margie, put on your buff 
muslin and you may wear your gold locket that's in the top 
of the trunk. Danny child, come here to me." 

“What does a picture feel like?" persisted Tom, dipping 
a finger in the water and wetting a narrow streak on his 
forehead, then whisking the towel at a great rate so Ma 
wouldn’t notice. 

“Mercy me! We’ve no time to dawdle!" cried Mrs. 
Crawford. “Your clean shirt, son!" 

At last they were ready. Flushed and breathless, they 
tumbled into the wagon and Margie held Danny on her 
lap. Ma caught up the reins and flapped them over the 
dusty backs of the mules. 

“Get up, Jack! Get up, Joe!" 

“Keep the puppy so he won’t follow, will you, Stowell?" 
yelled Tom. 

The wheels joggled over ruts. The team turned into the 
main road, heading for town at a lasy trot. Ma flicked 
them with the whip and they smartened their pace. They 
soon began to pass log shacks, neat frame houses, and here 
and there a picket fence. Dogs rushed out to bark at them. 
The houses became thicker and thicker. Many were of 
brick, crowned with square cupolas and fronted with hope' 
ful rows of cottonwood saplings. 



22 


The Shining Mountains 


Tom and Margie, who had seen nothing but prairie for 
days upon end, thought Denver City monstrous large. They 
felt important riding on the high seat with Ma, and sat very 
straight, gazing in awe at the tall, narrow, brick store build" 
ings wedged in rows opposite each other. Even the mules 
stepped cockily, flopping their ears at the carriages that 
rattled by, and snorting in pretended alarm at a string of 
freight wagons. 

“Easy, boys!” Ma tightened the reins. 

Margie's alert eyes peered out from the blue tunnel of 
her sunbonnet. “Danny,” she exclaimed, “I wish you'd sit 
still so I can see the sights!” 

There were all kinds of people hustling along the board 
walks: smoothly dressed city folk; miners in wool shirts and 
heavy boots; mule skinners in sweaty galluses. 

“Oh, look, Ma!” cried Tom, pointing. “There's Indians!” 

Margie turned to stare at the little band of mild^appearing 
redskins who trailed down the street. The men rode horses 
while the squaws traipsed cheerfully behind, leading ponies 
loaded with buckskin. Some wore bright blankets and oth" 
ers funny combinations of white people's clothes. Nobody 
paid them much attention. 

“Do you s'pose they're Utes?” whispered Tom. 

“If they are they don’t look scary,” said Margie, and 
found them far less interesting than a hairdresser's sign 
which advertised, “Chignons, Water Curls, Frisettes, 
Switches and Curls.” She did wish she had curls! 

Ma turned up a side street where the constant prairie 
wind whisked dust into their faces. “Now remember,” she 




The men rode horses while the squaws traipsed 
cheerfully behind 

















Cherry Creek Camp 


25 


admonished, nodding with such vigor that the brown roses 
on her small ribboned bonnet jiggled, “when the man takes 
your pictures, look pleasant!” 

“Yes’m!” chorused Margie and Tom, while Danny quit 
wriggling and clung to his sister, knowing that something 
very solemn was about to happen and not sure that he’d 
like it. 

“And don’t move an eyelash!” 

“No’m.” 

“Here we are!” 

Ma hitched the team in front of a dingy structure that 
bore a sign in weathered black letters, Clee Morgan, Trader. 
In one corner of the fly'specked window was the additional 
information, Benj. Humkins, Ferrotype Artist. Ma mar' 
shaled her wide'eyed family to the door. With her hand on 
the knob she gave them final instructions: “Thomas, for 
pity sake don’t gawp! Margie, take off your sunbonnet 
and let me see if your hair’s smooth. Danny, you musn’t 
scratch those mosquito bites. And whatever else you do, 
children, try to look a credit to the family!” 

They stood there half fearful to enter, feeling the pleas' 
ant warmth of the June sunshine, not knowing what waited 
for them inside. Ma swung open the door and they edged 
in. At first they couldn’t see a soul. After the brilliance 
of out'of'doors the room seemed full of shadows. They 
stared at the wooden counter and the shelves piled with a 
hodgepodge of blankets, hides, dusty bolts of calico, shiny 
trinkets, beads, boxes of cartridge shells, skinning knives, 
sacks of sugar. Then they saw a gaunt, black'bearded man 



26 


The Shining Mountains 


seated cross-legged on a buffalo robe. He was making some¬ 
thing from white buckskin, slashing at it with a gleaming 
knife. Scraps littered the dirty floor. 

“Mr. Humkins?" quavered Ma, holding very tightly to 
Danny. 

The man gave them a surly look and jerked his head 
toward the far end of the room, which was partitioned off by 
a couple of blankets hung across a pole. 

A thin young fellow in threadbare coat immediately ap¬ 
peared from behind the blankets. “Ah yes, indeed!" He 
coughed politely, rubbing his hands in the eager manner 
of one who didn’t have too many customers. “Come in! 
Come in!" 

They stepped into the improvised studio, which had one 
ordinary window and one window in the roof. 

“—a tintype apiece to send to their grandparents," Ma 
was explaining in a fluttery voice. “And could you make 
them right away? You see, we’re going across the range." 

“Across the range!" No wonder he was surprised. He 
soon knew they were from Missouri and were camping on 
Cherry Creek, and he acted so friendly that the family began 
to feel more at ease. After fussing over a big black box on a 
stand, he arranged a seat facing it. 

“Now!" he said. “Who’s first?" 

Since Margie was the oldest, she started for the seat 
with fast-beating heart. At that moment loud jabbering 
and grunting could be heard in the trader’s store. 

Tom peeked through the crack of the curtains. “It’s those 
Indians! Great geranium! You reckon they follered us?" 




Tom marched manfully to the seat 


































« 




Cherry Creek Camp 


29 


Margie darted to look. 

“Don’t mind them,” said Mr. Humkins. “Just a little 
band of Arapahoes come to swap.” He lowered his voice 
confidentially. “They won’t venture in here for they’re afraid 
of the camera. Morgan’s lived with the Indians so much 
he’s about like them. He’s very reasonable with the rent. 
Very! But most peculiar. That’s his boy there—the tall 
one. Half Indian.” 

“Margie—” Ma reminded. 

“Yes’m.” The girl sat in the seat and let Mr. Humkins 
adjust a stiff metal brace to the back of her head. She 
couldn’t have wriggled if she’d wanted to. The artist stuck 
his head under a black cloth and popped it out again. 

“Now, you must be very still, or the picture will show 
a girl with half a dozen eyes and any number of fingers. Ah 
yes, indeed! And you want your mouth to be pretty. Say 
besom!" 

Margie said besom. Mr. Humkins slipped the cap off the 
round glass front of the camera and began to count. He 
kept on counting. Margie stared straight ahead, holding 
her breath. When she’d held it so long she thought she 
couldn’t stand it, he clapped the cap back on and cried, 
“There! Who’s next?” 

Tom, not to be outdone by a girl, marched manfully to 
the seat. “Aw,” he said when the ordeal was over, “I 
couldn’t feel a thing!” 

Danny, fortified by the promise of sugar candy when 
they reached camp, had his turn. 

“Please make two of each,” requested Ma. 



30 


The Shining Mountains 


Mr. Humkins retired to a cubbyhole to do the develop" 
ing, and the Crawfords settled down to wait. Danny went 
to sleep. Margie and Tom amused themselves by looking 
through a stereoscope at a few dogVeared pictures on the 
table. Tiring of that, they fidgeted and peeped through the 
curtains. 

The Indians wanted to prolong their swapping. They 
fingered everything. They grunted and chuckled. Grum" 
pily, the trader hurried the business and ordered them to 
“Git!” He drove them all away except two halfigrown 
boys. One was his own son, according to Mr. Humkins; 
the other was a smaller lad, darker and stockier. The trad" 
er’s black eyes held an odd gleam as he beckoned them to 
sit close to him on the floor. They squatted obediently, 
bending their heads to catch his low gutturals and to see 
what he was doing with his hands. 

The room was close and hot. It smelled unbearably of 
hides, stale tobacco, and Indians. Ma’s nose wrinkled. “You 
might open that window, daughter.” 

Margie did. A strong gust of wind nearly knocked her 
down. It whipped across the room, flattening the curtains 
horizontally, scattering pictures, papers, and scraps of buck" 
skin in every direction. It caught Margie’s blue sunbonnet 
from the peg where she had hung it and sent it sailing 
through the store to lodge by a molasses keg. Shutting 
the window with a bang she dived after her bonnet. WhachJ 
she bumped smack into the tall Indian, who had stooped 
at the same instant to pick up something. 

She sat down hard. “Oh!” 



Cherry Creek Camp 


3i 


The boy rubbed his head. He laughed, a quick flash of 
white teeth, and handed her the bonnet. Margie, scram- 
bling to her feet, thanked him. She regarded him with in¬ 
terest. He was jolly even if he was an Indian. His clothes 
were of buckskin, with long fringe decorating the neck and 
sleeves of the loose overshirt and dangling from the outside 
of the leggings. Bright beads gleamed on his moccasins. His 
dark hair, parted in the middle, was braided in two pigtails 
like a girl's. 

The trader snapped out a sharp question. What a dis¬ 
agreeable man he was! The boy answered with a nod and 
a few rapid words. Hastily he tucked something in his 
belt; then he and his companion vanished through the door. 

Margie went back to the little room. By and by Mr. 
Humkins came out of his cubbyhole with the finished 
tintypes. 

“Did I look like that?” she wondered, gating over Mas 
arm at the solemn young face printed on the stiff black metal. 

Ma hugged her and Tom and Danny all together and 
got out some money from her bag to pay the artist. 

Glancing about for something in which to wrap the pic¬ 
tures, he spied a scrap of buckskin under the table where 
the wind had blown it. “Not very clean,” he observed. 
“Morgan has been doing some figuring on it. But 'tis soft 
and may serve better than paper.” 

The Crawfords lost no time heading home. Before they 
reached Cherry Creek Pa met them on horseback. He rode 
up with a great dash and clatter, as straight as a cavalryman 



32 


The Shining Mountains 


in his saddle, his blue eyes a-twinkle. Spy, the black silky- 
haired shepherd dog that had been with him all day helping 
drive the cattle, leaped to greet the mules. 

“Pa!” shouted Tom. “We—” 

“Oh, Jimmy—” Ma began in a flurry to tell him. 

“Aha! Aha!” he cried with mock severity, turning his 
horse and traveling alongside them. “So the minute Pm 
gone, you’re off to the city! Hute and Henry were a-mind 
to send a scouting party after you, but I told them you’d 
show up come supper time.” 

“Jimmy, I had their pictures made!” 

“Ay Jonathan!” 

Ma had him stop then and there to look at them. He 
acted as pleased as could be and everyone tried to talk at 
once. 

When they got to camp Ma straightway wrote a letter 
to her parents in Missouri. She made a neat packet of one 
set of the pictures, which with the letter she sent to the 
postoffice by Hute Richardson. The remaining pictures she 
wrapped in the rest of the buckskin and laid carefully away 
in the tray of the little tin trunk in the wagon. 

The new cows had been put with the other cattle in a 
near-by corral. Everyone went to bed soon after supper. 
Once in the night Spy barked, but Pa, supposing she had 
heard some late traveler along the road, called her to the 
tent and made her be quiet. 

It seemed no time at all till he was shouting, “Roll out, 
everybody!” Light was beginning to show in the east. Birds 
were singing in the cottonwoods. Breakfast was cooking 



Cherry Creek Camp 


33 


over the crackling fires. Before the sun was up the tents 
were down. Margie climbed into the smaller wagon to pack 
the bedding. 

“Ma! Come quick!” Her startled exclamation brought 
everybody running. “The trunk’s wide open and our pic' 
tures are gone!” 










Chapter Two 

THE TOP OF THE WORLD 

“Gone! The pictures! Nonsense!” Ma climbed into the 
wagon. There was the trunk wide open and nothing appar' 
ently disturbed in the neatly packed tray. But the pictures 
were gone! 

“Which one of you young ones has been meddling?” 
she asked crossly. 

“Not me!” 

“Nor me!” 

“ ’Twasn’t us, Aunt Maggie!” 

“Oh, Ma,” cried Margie, “remember how Spy barked 
in the night? D’you reckon—?” 

“I betcha some thief sneaked in and stole ’em!” chattered 
Tom. 

Ma rummaged through the tray. Then she turned every" 
thing upside down again, bound to unearth the tintypes 
whether or no. 

“Sure you put ’em in here?” Pa wanted to know. 

“Of course I did!” Ma was vastly put out. 

“Miss anything else?” 

Ma shook her head. “I can’t for the life of me see—” 

“—why anyone would steal our pictures!” broke in Tom, 
his hair standing up every direction because Ma had been 
too busy to make him comb it. “Great geranium! I’d think 
a thief would ’ve stole the money!” 

34 


The Top of the World 


35 


“Or my gold locket,” nodded Margie. 

“Someone's been prowlin' around, all right,” reported 
Hute. “There's blurry tracks in the sand, but the horses 
have tromped over 'em. Can't tell nothin’.” 

“I'll warrant it was some scoundrel after money and he 
got the pictures by mistake,” growled Pa. “Just goes to show 
I ought to paid attention to the dog!” 

“No use to waste any more time,” said Aunt Sally 
brusquely. “What can't be cured must be endured. There’s 
a heap more important things than pictures. 7 say we’d 
better be off before the sun gets blistering hot.” 

Ma could not be reconciled to the loss of the precious 
tintypes, and Margie and Tom went about with long faces. 
But the packing must be finished. There were a thousand 
things to do! At last the teams were harnessed and the 
wagons loaded. 

“All aboard!” sang out Pa. 

The Yankees and Crawfords would travel the same road 
that day, but the Reeds would turn south. The women 
kissed each other a tearful good-by. Little Janey clung to 
Margie desperately. 

“I'll miss you dreadful!” she sobbed. 

The wagons rumbled out of the camp ground together. 
Margie looked back at the deserted grove. How lonesome 
it seemed with the tents down and the fires quenched! At 
the fork of the roads the Reeds pulled out of the train. 
“Good'by!” everyone shouted. “Good luck!” The children 
called and waved till the green^brown prairie rose up be- 
tween them. 



3 ^ 


The Shining Mountains 


Tom wanted to ride with Stowell, so Mary Ann climbed 
into the Crawford wagon, and she and Margie sat holding 
hands. Now that parting was so near it seemed as if they 
ought to talk about important things. But they could think 
of only commonplaces: 

“There goes a rabbit.” 

“There’s a burrowing owl.” 

“We’re coming to a ranch.” 

The teams jogged along over a succession of low sandy 
hills. Mary Ann said, “We ought to have something to 
remember each other by. You give me a lock of your hair 
and I’ll give you one of mine, and we’ll keep them always 
as mementos.” 

The exchange was made with the aid of Ma’s scissors. 
Margie, casting about for a place to put her memento, 
thought of her sketch book. It was a very special sketch book 
with a cross'stitched linen cover and a pocket in the back 
in which she kept her chiefest treasure, a red pencil. Pa 
and Ma had given her the book and pencil for her last 
birthday. 

“Let’s look at your drawings,” urged Mary Ann. 

Tenderly Margie turned the pages. More than half of 
them were already full. Then she said, “When I learn to 
paint—” 

“You ought to have lessons,” interrupted her cousin with 
a superior nod. “How are you ever going to learn anything 
away off with the savages?” 

“I don’t know.” Margie’s chin lifted. “But I’ll learn 
some way.” She didn’t want Mary Ann to see how she had 



The Top of the World 


37 


worried over that same question herself. If Pa hadn't taken 
a notion to come to Colorado Territory, he'd promised she 
could have painting lessons from Jody Havely in Sedalia. 
Jody could make all kinds of pictures—peaches spilled on a 
table, puppies in a basket, purple pansies. 

Margie wanted to paint flowers and sunsets. Sometimes 
she wanted to so badly she ached inside. Giving up those 
lessons had been the hardest thing about coming West, 
though she'd resolved not to let Pa and Ma know. 

She put her sketch book away in the little blue bag 
where she kept it. Some day she would paint pictures! 
Maybe she’d find the shining place where old timers said 
the rocks were solid gold and silver. Then she'd be rich 
enough to send and buy a whole bunch of brushes and a 
color box with all the colors in the rainbow. And if Pa 
and Ma were willing she could pay her fare back to Missouri 
where Jody could teach her. 

She poked out her head from under the canvas side flap 
of the wagon to peer at the mountains. Yonder they 
stretched along the western horizon as far as eye could reach. 

“Can you see any shine to them?” she asked earnestly. 

“No, I can’t,” said her cousin. “Only those specks of 
snow on the peaks.” 

“Maybe they'll shine on the other side. Anyway I’m 
going to keep watching.” 

That night the travelers made their last camp together 
in the shadow of Table Mountain near the town of Golden. 
They could look straight up the wrinkled flanks of the 
foothills. 



38 


The Shining Mountains 


“Shucks,” commented Tom, “the mountains ain’t as big 
as I thought they’d be!” 

Hute Richardson roared with laughter. “Wait till you 
start climbin’ ’em, young fellow,” he advised. 

In the morning when it came time to start Ma flung her 
arms around Aunt Sally and hid her face. Even Aunt Sally 
cried, though she pretended she’d got ashes in her eyes. 
No telling when any of them would ever see each other 
again! Margie hugged Mary Ann tight. In a burst of gen' 
erosity Stowell gave Tom his Jew’s harp, which had been 
the envy of the younger boy all the way across the plains. 
“Here, take it!” he said gruffly. “I’m tired playin’ it any' 
how.” 

The Yankees turned left into the Mount Vernon road, 
which would bring them to Bergen Park and Empire. 

“Good'by!” they called. “Good'by!” 

Then the Crawfords drove through Golden, turning 
right to follow along the base of the range for a mile or so. 
A lump as big as a walnut lodged in Margie’s throat. Leav' 
ing the other wagons was almost worse than leaving the 
farm in Missouri, she reflected. She didn’t mind sleeping 
on the ground and picking ants out of the sugar if Mary Ann 
and Janey had to do it too. And she could laugh at prickly 
pear in her shoes and sun blisters on her nose just to prove 
to Stowell that she wasn’t any tenderfoot. But now— 

The wheels creaked and the harness jangled. Pa drove the 
mule team to the lighter covered wagon while Uncle Henry 
drove four horses to the freight outfit. Hute rode Chief, 
herding the thirty cows and the loose horses behind the 



The Top of the World 


39 


plodding procession. Ma and Danny sat on the high board 
seat with Pa. Tom and Margie perched on the bedroll in the 
back. There wasn’t much room to tuck in their feet what 
with being squeezed among sacks of flour and sugar, Mis- 
souri hams, the tin trunk, Mas small brown rocking chair, 
the feather tick, Tobe and Ponto, and whatever else Pa 
hadn’t been able to get into the freight wagon. 

Tom plunk'plunked on the Jew’s harp. Margie glanced 
at him. Maybe he felt as lonesome as she did. After all, 
they could have a lot of fun together. And there was the 
rest of the family and Hute and Uncle Henry. It wasn’t any 
use to look back and wish for things. She straightened her 
shoulders resolutely. 

“Who knows?” she exclaimed. “Maybe we’ll have as 
grand adventures as Robinson Crusoe!” 

She hung out of the wagon as far as she dared and was 
first to spy 1 the gash in the ridge where the road bent west. 
Straight into the mountains! 

“Yep,” said Pa, “Golden Gate Canyon. Shortest way 
to Blackhawk, Rollinsville, and the top of the Divide.” 

He had to pay the tollkeeper who came out of a house 
to count their teams and stock. Then he headed Jack 
and Joe into the deeply-rutted, narrow shelf road. 

“Jimmy,” gasped Ma, “it’s steep as the roof of a house! 
We’ll never pull it!” 

Pa gave Jack, the right mule, a light reminder with the 
whip. “Why, Em, this here’s just a common hill. Wait 
till you see some real grades.” 

Before the day was over even Pa had to admit that the 



40 


The Shining Mountains 


road was “a leetle mite abrupt.” The teams dripped sweat, 
and the fat cows Hute was driving wheeled along with 
their tongues out. The family had to walk to lighten the 
load. Tobe, the big gray cat, yowled his objections to 
leaving his comfortable spot on the bedroll. 

“I s’pose you think you own this wagon,” snorted Tom, 
“but you can walk as well as any of us. So there!” 

Tobe had no intention of walking. Before he had come 
to live with the Crawfords he had belonged to a man who 
had taught him to ride on the backs of his farm mules. He 
leaped to a rock, watched his chance, and from there sprang 
onto Hute’s horse just behind the saddle. The saddle blan' 
ket was long enough that he could catch an easy claw hold. 
Chief, the horse, jumped, but he was too hot to object much. 
Hute laughed and let the big cat be. After that Tobe often 
rode horseback, and Chief grew used to him and never 
flicked an ear. 

When the teams stopped to rest, Tom and Margie blocked 
the wheels so the wagons would not slide back. The stream 
which trickled through the canyon bed was hardly worth 
looking at now, but Pa pointed out deep carved holes in 
the banks, and logs jammed up against rocks, and said he'd 
hate to be here in a cloudburst or a spring freshet. Choke' 
cherry bushes showed fragrant creamy bloom on the south 
slopes. Margie took deep delicious breaths of sweetness. 
She found bluebells, wild roses, and dozens of flowers she 
didn’t know. She also discovered that many rocks did shine 
in the sunlight, though Pa said there was no silver or gold 
in them. Only mica, or fools’ gold. Sometimes the canyon 




He sprang onto Hute’s horse 





























The Top of the World 


43 


walls grew so steep she marveled how the pine trees could 
hold on. 

Peggy's colt whickered and cut capers, and its mother 
whinnied anxious precautions. Spy, feeling responsibility 
for everything, trotted back and forth between the teams 
and the cows and roly-poly Ponto who would chase chip¬ 
munks and dig for woodchucks. 

Toward night the road came out in a grassy meadow 
where Pa pitched the tent and let the stock feed. Margie 
fell asleep hearing the strange sound of the wind through 
the pines. “Almost like soft singing," she thought drowsily. 
Cherry Creek Camp, Denver, and the lost tintypes seemed 
a long, long way off. 

The next day the road climbed steadily upward through 
country that grew more open. Noisy little streams, clear 
as crystal, romped down the cracks between the hills. How 
different, thought Margie, from the tepid sluggish Flat Creek 
in Missouri! Different, too, from the lasy meandering 
Cherry Creek of the plains. 

“Oh, can't we go wading?" begged Tom and Danny. 

Ma shook her head. “That water's like ice." 

They began to travel through groves of quaking aspens 
whose leaves made a gentle rustle in the breeze. The cows 
snatched bites of grass as Hute prodded them along. Margie 
and Tom explored while the teams toiled slowly up the 
grade. 

“How straight and white the aspen trunks are!" said 
the girl. “They look like mushroom stems. If I were a 
giant I'd pick some." 



44 


The Shining Mountains 


“Listen!” hushed Tom. “What’s that?” 

T-um — t-um — t-um — 

A low thrumming noise like the distant muffled beat of 
a drum came to their alert ears. Cautiously they pushed 
through the brush. 

“Look!” whispered Margie. “It’s a gray bird as big as a 
chicken walking along that log. And every time he swells 
out those yellow spots on his neck he makes a noise.” 

“He’s strutting,” giggled Tom, “just like a turkey cock!” 

Pa said the bird must be a grouse. 

In the cool recesses in the trees Margie found dainty blue 
and white flowers on long slender stems. They smelled as 
sweet as the syringas that used to grow at home. She asked 
a passing freighter what they were. 

“Them’s columbines!” he told her. 

Occasionally the Crawfords passed a diggings — a gray 
dump of rock with a miner’s shack beside it. The third 
night they reached Rollinsville, which was only a handful 
of cabins. Pa found a man who had a garden. He bought 
some pieplant which Ma cooked into sauce. How good it 
tasted! And what appetites they had! 

“I reckon we’ll soon be beyond pieplant and everything 
else,” sighed Ma. 

Pa was impatient to reach the pass. The second day foh 
lowing, they came to Yankee Doodle Lake where the road 
builders were camped. The lake was a deep round pocket 
in the rocks, and the wind lapped at the water, which looked 
green and cold. Above towered the last steep ascent of the 



The Top of the World 


45 


range. The massive granite backbone of the continent, grim, 
forbidding, and barren of trees. 

“Great geranium!’' said Tom, awed. “D'you reckon we'll 
ever get over that, Marge?” 

“Big enough for you?” teased Hute. 

Pa was disappointed to learn that the pass was not yet 
open to travel, though forty men were hard at work. He 
and Hute and Uncle Henry pitched in to help the road crew. 
Luckily there was a cabin in which the family could have 
shelter, and Mr. Rollins offered them the hospitality of the 
camp. “I think in a day or two you can make the Big Hill,” 
he told Pa. “We'll soon have some of those rocks out of 
the way and I'll pull you over with my oxen. Meanwhile, 
make yourselves comfortable.” 

“Comfortable!” grumbled Tom. “Huh! What's he call 
comfortable, I'd like to know! The mosquitoes are nearly 
eatin’ me up!” 

Danny's face was all red and bumpy. No wonder he was 
cross! The mosquitoes came in hordes night and day. Not 
even a heavy smudge affected them. The only way to find 
relief was to stand in the strong wind. 

“Doesn't the wind ever stop?” asked Tom. 

“Not up here, sonny,” said a whiskered workman. “By 
jing, when it gits tired blowin' one direction it switches 
around and blows t'other. This here's jest a mild breeze, 
but up there on the Big Hill it'll turn you wrong side out if 
you ain't keerful.” 

Everywhere a person stepped, the ground was damp and 
spongy. Do 2 £ns of miniature rivers trickled down from the 



46 


The Shining Mountains 


snowbanks that hung over the ridge in great white scallops. 
Margie and Tom had a lively snowball fight. 

“Whew! I—I'm all—out of breath!" panted Tom, drop' 
ping down on a rock. 

Margie's head felt giddy and her heart was galloping 
against her ribs. “Reckon—it's—the altitude," she gasped. 
“Pa says the air's—awful—thin." 

While she rested she gazed around her with interest. Back 
in Missouri it was already hot weather, and down on the 
plains it was summer, but here it was barely spring. Dozens 
of little silver'green leaves thrust up through the black soil 
like rabbits’ ears. White snow lilies and creamy globe flow' 
ers bloomed everywhere. Pussywillows were just out—tiny 
fluffs of gray on bushes only a foot high. 

“Wonder why the willows don't grow any taller?" 

“Don’t look to me as if they had much chance," said Tom. 
“Wind and snow and everything. Even the pine trees are 
runty and onesided. Some of ’em crawl right on the ground." 

“Poor things!" Margie remembered the tall proud ever' 
greens of the lower hills. 

On the third day a storm was brewing. A damp chill 
was in the air and thunderheads began rolling up. Pa de' 
termined to get over the range before the rain should break. 
“The road isn’t so bad," he assured Ma. “It’s tolerable 
rough and there’s a few rocks, but it’ll be worse if it’s wet." 

“Road!" Ma said eloquently. 

Pa grinned. “We’ll take the small wagon first. Then the 
freight. Then the cattle. We’ll all be over the pass and down 
to timberline and shelter before the clouds open up." 



The Top of the World 


47 


Ma didn’t say another word as she helped Pa pack the 
things they had been using and rope the load as securely as 
possible. Margie bundled Danny into his jacket, buttoned 
her own brown serge coat higher under her chin. They all 
climbed into the wagon and said good'by to Yankee Doodle 
Lake. “Hold tight!” warned Ma. 

The mules had their noses pointed straight for the roiled 
gray sky and they had to dig in their hoofs and cling like 
flies to the slanting earth. 

“Anyhow,” declared Margie, “I’d as soon fall off a momv 
tain as stay back there with the mosquitoes!” 

They reached the bad stretch where Mr. Rollins’ crew 
was working. Hute and Uncle Henry who had already man' 
aged to get the freight wagon this far were waiting here to 
help Pa. 

“Better get out now,” he told the family. The calmness 
of his voice and the steady grip of his hands on the reins made 
his family think he was used to crossing the Continental 
Divide every day. “Em, you and the children climb on ahead 
and we’ll join you before you can say Jack Robinson!” 

“Jimmy, be careful!” Ma begged. 

She and Margie each took one of Danny’s hands and got 
a fair distance before they had to sit down to rest. Tom 
struggled with Tobe. Ponto was obliged to use his own fat 
legs. Spy stayed with the teams. Ma didn’t rest long. 
“We’ve got to keep going,” she said. They toiled a few feet, 
fought for breath, toiled on. Margie thought she never 
would get her chest full of air again. She was beginning to 
feel dizzy and her ears roared. Back yonder what a time 



48 


The Shining Mountains 


the men were having! Mr. Rollins had hitched two yoke 
of oxen to the small wagon, and Pa had hitched the mules 
and two teams of horses in front of them. The rocks in the 
way seemed as big as houses. 

Fascinated, the family huddled on the hill to watch the 
mighty struggle. They heard the shouts of the men and the 
grunts of the straining animals. The wagon was standing 
almost on end. 

“It’s goin’ to tip over!” screeched Tom. 

“Jimmy!” cried Ma. 

But the wagon did not tip over though it seemed at any 
moment it must. The men put big blocks of wood back of 
the wheels so the animals could rest a minute. A long rumble 
of thunder echoed down the ridge. Ma stiffened. She 
turned her face to the mountain. 

“Come! We’ve got to get on!” 

In short puffing jerks they advanced. Sometimes they 
crawled on hands and knees, boosting Danny along the best 
they could. The wind grew worse. It had a weird whistle 
as it cut past the bare granite. 

“Hurry!” 

They tried to. Their legs felt like wood. Crash! The 
thunder was so loud it nearly split their ears. Margie was 
afraid the whole sky was coming down! Great drops of rain 
splattered on the rocks. It turned to sleet. Danny began 
to cry when hard pellets hit his face. 

“What shall we do?” Ma cast about for some place to 
find shelter. 

By this time they had reached the top where the ground 



The Top of the World 


49 


no longer tipped under them. They started down the other 
slope, so blinded by the driving storm that they could hardly 
walk. 

“Ma, here’s something—” Margie had to shout to make 
herself heard. Her feet had become tangled in an old piece 
of saddle blanket. Evidently she had happened on an aban' 
doned road camp, for there were rocks blackened with fire, 
and there was a broken piece of running gear. What luck 
to find that blanket! 

Ma seised it. “Here! Under this!” 

They all hunched as close together as they could, pulb 
ing the cover over their heads. Tobe and Ponto squeezed 
in too. The wind increased in fury. Hail rattled on the 
granite. This wasn’t a Missouri storm. It was a howling 
mountain blissard. Not a tree or even a bush to break the 
terrific force of the gale. 

Frightened, they clung to their frayed shelter. Chunks 
of ice as big as hens’ eggs bounced on the ground and batted 
on the blanket. They stung through and hurt. White 
swordpoints of lightning played on the rocks and thunder 
cannonaded from the peaks. How cramped and cold every' 
one was. And wet, too, where the water soaked through. 
Ponto whined. Tobe hissed and growled. 

As abruptly as the storm had begun it ceased. They could 
hear it rumbling away along the divide. Margie poked her 
head out. “Well, did you ever! The sun’s shining!” 

“G—g—great geranium!” Tom’s teeth were chattering. 
“Wh—where’s the bottom of the mountain?” 

“It’s covered with fog,” said Margie. 



The Shining Mountains 


50 

“We’re above the clouds,” said Ma. “Thank goodness 
we’re still alive! I hope your pa ’ll come and find us pretty 
soon.” 

“Above the clouds! Sa-ay—” Tom stood up, dropping 
the disgusted Tobe on a pile of hailstones. “It’s just like 
being on a desert island, only it’s awful cold.” 

“We’re on the west slope now!” exclaimed his sister, 
whose eager curiosity could not be extinguished even by 
a blizxard on top of the world. “I wish I could see what’s 
under those clouds! What do you reckon we’ll find down 
there?” 




Chapter Three 
A WARNING 

Ma and the children had to walk to keep from freezing. 
They started along the west trail, shivering in the wind that 
cut through their wet clothes like a knife. It was no more 
than a trail, though in some places rocks had been rolled 
aside, and farther down some of the timber that was begin' 
ning to show in dark spots through the clouds had been 
chopped out. 

“Brrrr!” Tom slapped his arms around his shoulders. 
“Wisht—” 

What he wished was never known, for at that moment 
came a deep familiar call: “Hoooooooo— oo!" 

It was Pa! Here came the mules bobbing over the sky' 
line, and behind them the wagon. Pa was walking on the 
upper side of the team, guiding them with the reins. Hute 
Richardson was half a dozen strides ahead. The faces of 
both men lighted up with relief when they saw the family 
all safe and sound. And wasn’t the family thankful to see 
them! 

“Jimmy, you did get the wagon up!” marveled Ma. 

“Ay Jonathan!” Pa was blowing as hard as the mules. 
His hat dripped water and his shoulders were streaked with 
rain. “Never knowed a storm could come so fast!” 

Margie almost wanted to hug good old Jack and Joe who 
looked comically surprised to find themselves away up here! 
And she did pat the little wagon with its sway'backed white 
5i 


52 


The Shining Mountains 


cover, the wagon that had been house and home for so 
long. “Where’s Uncle Henry?” she asked. 

“Took the extra teams back,” Hute told her. “We didn’t 
need ’em on the last lap. Goin’ to hitch ’em to the freight.” 

“Let’s get down where there’s some wood and build a 
fire!” shivered Tom. “I’m ’most frose.” 

“Be at timberline in three shakes now,” promised Pa in 
the hearty tone he always used when he could see the family 
was mighty tired. He took a moment to study the steep 
rocky descent. “Safer, I reckon, for you'all to keep walkin’.” 

Ma was white around the mouth. “I declare to goodness, 
Jimmy Crawford, I’ve walked and carried this baby over 
most of the Rocky Mountains today and I intend to ride 
the rest of the way!” She set her foot on the hub and got 
into the wagon. 

Pa shot a keen look at her and got in the wagon himself. 
“Climb was too much for you, Em!” 

“I’m all right.” Ma was bound not to give in. “But I aim 
to ride a piece.” 

“Ay, we’ll make it. Giddap, boys!” 

So Pa drove down the Continental Divide where no wagon 
had ever gone before and no wagon was ever supposed to 
go. Small Danny rode with Ma, but Tom and Margie 
scrambled over the rocks with Hute. Lots of places they 
had to hang onto the upper side of the wagon to keep it 
from tipping over. Bumpity bang! ]olt! Crea-ea-eakJ. How 
the wooden joints protested and how the mules grunted! 

As the sun melted the clouds from the lowlands, Mar- 
gie had her first glimpse of Middle Park. What a vast 



A Warning 


S3 


sweep of country! Not a house anywhere. Not even a 
friendly curl of smoke. Not a fence or a plowed meadow. 
Black forests and great wild valley and on beyond—more 
mountains. She felt a quick tug of lonesomeness. Would 
this strange new West ever be like home? 

She didn’t have time to be lonesome long. Spang! Clatter! 
went the mules’ hoofs down a perpendicular break of rock. 

“Wope! Wope!” cried Hute. “Hold ’er!” 

Pa yanked on the lines just in time to keep the front 
wheels from bouncing over. They’d have surely been 
smashed. Hute brought rocks to fill the hole. One of them 
rolled down, hit Jack’s heel, and made him kick. The sharp 
hoof laid open a wide gash across Hute’s mouth. He stag" 
gered back and fell. 

“Oh! Oh!” Margie ran to him. 

Pa had to let the wagon over the drop before he could 
come. Ma jumped out too, and between them they tried 
to stop the bleeding. Luckily, they had reached the edge 
of timber and could make camp right there. “Get a fire!” 
ordered Pa. No joke to start a fire with wet wood. The 
frightened children scurried around, found dry limbs and 
cones under some thick branches, and finally got a blase. 

Hute’s jaw was still bleeding. Pa looked gray and stern, 
and Ma was doing everything she knew. Silently Tom and 
Margie unhitched the mules, picketing them where they 
could find some feed. They got snow from a snowbank 
to melt for water, then hovered by the fire and dried their 
clothes and Danny’s. How cold it was! They could get 
only one side warm at a time. 



54 


The Shining Mountains 


It was nearly dark before Hute’s jaw quit bleeding. He 
lay in a blanket pretty well done up. Ma went right to bed. 
The hard climb, the high altitude, and Hute’s accident had 
been more than she could stand. 

“You’ll have to tend to things, daughter.” 

“ ‘Course!” 

Margie heated a rock for Ma’s feet and made her a steam* 
ing cup of coffee. Footsore and feeling empty and a trifle 
dizzy herself, she shouldered her responsibilities pluckily. 
Supper to get. And then more beds to make. There’d be 
no tent to sleep in tonight. The tent was in the freight 
wagon. Pa and Tom were hunting firewood. 

All at once there was a loud rattling of stones up on the 
ridge. To the surprise of everyone, here came Uncle Henry 
riding Chief and herding the cows and the extra horses. He 
rode up to the fire. “Thought I better bring the critters 
over. Feed’s pretty scarce around the lake—hullo! What’s 
the matter? Well I be jiggered!” He unsaddled, picketed 
his horse, and pitched right in to help get supper. 

He stayed all night and didn’t tell them about the freight 
wagon till morning. By that time Hute was able to smile 
on the side of his mouth that wasn’t bandaged and declared 
he was all right, though he could hardly manage any break* 
fast. Ma, on the other hand, felt worse and couldn’t sit 
up without getting faint. 

“Altitude,” said Pa, beside himself with worry. “Got to 
get her down.” 

“Looks as if you can make it from here without much 



A Warning 


55 


trouble," encouraged Hute. “You go on. Me and Henry 
'll go back and fetch the freight." 

“Jim, the freight's stuck in the rocks," frowned Uncle 
Henry, hating like everything to tell his brother. “Rollins' 
crew and I tried to get it out yesterday, but it's lodged 
pretty dog'gonned deep and no tellin'—" 

“We’ll git it, Jim old boy! Leave it to us!" Hute put a 
hand on Pa's shoulder. “You got to go on down." 

“Reckon you can manage?" 

“Go 'long!" What a friend, that lanky young Missourian! 
“We'll catch up with you tomorrow or next day." 

It seemed the only thing to do. “Think you can drive 
the stock, son?" Pa asked Tom gravely. 

“Betcha!" The boy swelled with importance. “Me and 
Chief can do it. Chief bites their backs when they don't 
behave." 

How Pa ever succeeded in getting the wagon down that 
mountain was more than Margie could have told. Ma, who 
had to He on the bed in the back, said it was a wonder any 
of them ever reached Middle Park alive. And Pa said, “I 
wouldn't trade those mules for their weight in gold! No 
sir-ree!" 

By late afternoon the wagon wheels were rolling through 
the soft grass of the valley land. In the warm mellow sun" 
shine the country looked far different from the glimpses 
they had had through the gray storm clouds yesterday. It 
was nicer than Margie had thought it would be. “Oh," she 
cried as the wild meadow opened to her view, “just see the 
blue flowers!" 



56 


The Shining Mountains 


“I do believe they’re flags,” said Ma, who felt able now 
to sit on the seat with Pa. Her tired shoulders straightened. 
“The whole flat’s covered with them.” 

“Wouldn’t this be a nice place for a house!” exclaimed 
Margie. 

From then on, she and Danny played a game. They pre' 
tended they were going to build a lot of houses and tried 
to see how many pretty spots they could find. “There by 
that tree!” 

“Yonder on that little knoll!” 

“Right at the edge of the creek so water’d be handy—” 

“Pa,” she suggested, “why couldn’t we really build a 
house and live right here somewhere?” 

“I believe this’d be good farm land,” said Ma with an 
anxious side look at her husband. “Jimmy, do we have to 
go any farther? Couldn’t we stop here, sure enough?” 

“Why, Em honey, this can’t hold a candle to what we’ll 
find yonder—I’ll warrant!” He waved an arm toward the 
west—toward those hump shouldered gray hills and that 
line of mountains, purple against the gold of the setting sun. 

More mountains! Oh, dear! thought Margie. Would Pa 
have them cross another awful divide like Rollins Pass? 
There was only one consoling idea. Maybe some of those 
mountains would be the Shining Ones, shining with honest' 
to'goodness gold. 

Pa acted as if he’d clean forgot about pitching camp and 
intended to drive all the way to that far range tonight. He 
didn’t seem to see that the sky had changed from gold to 
crimson, from crimson to pale pink, and that dusk was set' 



A Warning 


57 


tling down in the meadows. He was saying: “Ay Jonathan! 
I wouldn’t be surprised if a railroad was built into this coun- 
try some day.” 

“Never!” declared Ma. “Why Jimmy, how can you talk 
so? You know no train could ever climb what we've 
climbed!” 

Just then Tom spurted alongside on his horse. “Say, 
aren't we never goin' to eat?” he asked. “The cows are 
hittin' for that meadow. I can't drive ’em!” 

“Let 'em be,” said Pa. “Here's where we stop. Right 
under this whopping spruce tree. Whoa, boys! Whoa!” 

The wagon bumped across a log, grated sideways over a 
rock, and groaned to a stop a few feet from the bank of a 
dashing, foaming creek. They all clambered out. Ma still 
looked peaked, but she wouldn't be waited on tonight and 
took charge of making camp, while Pa unharnessed and 
picketed the mules. 

“Gagy!” wailed Danny. It had been a long, weary day 
for the little fellow. 

“Yes, son, you shall have gravy,” promised Ma, “soon 
as ever we can get a fire. Margie, you fetch some wood 
and I'll get out the frying pan.” 

Margie hurried to break dry pitchy limbs from an old 
fallen log. Ponto romped around her. He discovered a 
mouse hole and set up an excited barking. Spy stood ner' 
vously whiffing the air. The girl dumped an armload of 
sticks on the ground and stooped to rumple the white ruff 
on the back of the dog's neck. 

“What's the matter, Spy?” 



58 


The Shining Mountains 


The dog wagged her tail and whined. Margie stood on 
a tree root to try to peer over the rank growth of bushes. 
The light was dimming so fast that the meadow looked 
gray. A nighthawk, clipping through the twilight on keen 
curved wings, screeched a harsh cry. 

“I don't see a thing to be scared of," said the girl. Never- 
theless a feeling of uneasiness crept upon her. It was good 
to hear Pa jangling the harness as he hung it in a tree for 
the night, good to hear the contented snorts of the mules 
as they rolled in the lush grass. 

"Daughter!" 

"Coming, Ma." 

"Lay the fire. Then run and fetch a pail of water from 
the creek. Don't fall in!" 

Margie knelt to strike a match. The strong sulphur 
fumes made her cough, but the dry spruce needles blazed 
immediately. On top of these she placed twigs and sticks 
and soon had a good bed of coals for the frying pan. 

Spy accompanied her to the creek standing beside her 
stiff-legged and wary, while the girl dipped the water. 
Margie couldn't help glancing apprehensively over her shoul¬ 
der as she panted back into the circle of firelight. "Pa, 
there's something—" 

Tom tumbled into camp, dragging his saddle behind him. 
"The horses are actin’ funny, Pa. Great geranium, do you 
s’pose it's Indians?" 

"Indians!" Ma, who was mixing flour and water in a 
cup, looked up, startled. 

"Nonsense!" said Pa. "If there’s anything in the meadow 



A Warning 


59 


it's a bear or a coyote." But he set his gun in plain sight 
against a tree. 

"Mercy to goodness!" Ma clattered the tin plates and 
cups. "It’ll be pitch dark before we get our camp made and 
I aim to be comfortable tonight! Tom, you go with your 
pa and help him cut a pile of nice soft spruce boughs. 
Margie, climb into the wagon and hunt out the blankets. 
Nobody gets a bite to eat till the beds are made." 

The baby let out a howl. 

"Nobody but Danny," Ma hastened to add. 

Though they were all as tired as could be, it was sup 
prising how fast they could work with the smell of venison 
tickling their nostrils. 

"We must have struck a regular old camp ground," said 
Pa, picking up a long, crudely smoothed stick that was half 
rotted through. "This looks like a tepee pole. And here’s 
a pile of deer hair where some Indian has been graining 
buckskin." 

"There’s a wide trail runs right through the grass yonder," 
remarked Tom. "I saw it when I picketed Chief." 

"Where there’s a trail there’s travel. I’ll warrant everyone 
who crosses the Park camps right here in this spot." 

They made the first bed close under the giant spruce. By 
the time Pa and Tom had cut enough small boughs from 
the thick undergrowth to form a fairly springy mattress 
when placed row upon row with the furry ends up, Margie 
had a canvas ready to spread. On top of that she arranged 
blankets, and last of all the tarpaulin to keep off the heavy 
dew. 



6o 


The Shining Mountains 


“Now, let's hurry and fix a bed for Pa and me on the 
other side of the fire,” chattered Tom. “Is that all the 
blankets there are, Sis? I reckon that breeze comes right off 
the snowbanks. Spy and Ponto and Tobe 'll have to have 
some cover too. Here, Spy, you can sleep on my saddle 
blanket.” 

But the dog, instead of coming to him, rushed into the 
shadows with a sharp warning bark. Pa snatched up his 
gun, and just at that moment came a hail through the 
darkness. 

“Hullo, the camp!” 

“Hello!” answered Pa. 

Something splashed through the creek. The willows 
parted and a stumpy little old man shuffled into the firelight. 
Behind him plodded a small mouse'colored burro bearing 
a canvas'covered pack which rolled gently from side to side. 

“Howdy,” said the stranger, and seemed mightily eim 
barrassed at the sight of women. He tugged at the brim 
of his shapeless hat, ducking his head as if trying to hide 
the round button of his nose in the shrubbery of gray whis' 
kers that matted his chin. “Seen your fire. Alius like to 
know who’s in the country.” 

“Mighty glad you came!” Pa set down his gun and ad' 
vanced with outstretched hand. “I’m Crawford. Jim Craw' 
ford. Lookin’ for good land to homestead. Judge you’re a 
prospector from the pick and shovel on your pack.” 

“Yep. Been scratchin’ around these here hills consider' 
able,” admitted the old man. “Everyone as knows me calls 
me Pony. Pony Wilson.” He surveyed the camp with a 



A Warning 


61 


pair of keen blue eyes that seemed to take in every detail at 
once. “Never see a wagon track hereabouts afore!" he 
ejaculated. “Never reckoned—" 

Danny had been sitting on the ground with his tin plate 
between his legs, busily mopping his bread in his gravy. 
Now he raised a sudden clamorous howl. The burro had 
eaten his bread. The donkey, flopping his ears forward, 
gased at the squawling baby in mild astonishment. 

“Hyar you, Music!" scolded the old man. “Ain’t you 
ashamed o’ yourself! Tell the little feller you’re sorry!" 
He stroked the small creature’s chin with his horny hand. 

“Eee—aw! Eee—aw!" obliged the burro. 

Danny stopped in the middle of a howl, his eyes as round 
as marbles. 

“Now, show ’em how you can shake hands," ordered 
the old man. 

The burro gravely proffered one dainty front hoof to his 
master. 

“Oh, will he shake hands with me?" cried the delighted 
Tom. 

“Shore he will!" 

Ponto, who had sought refuge under Ma’s skirts at the 
first indication of danger, now grew jealously brave and 
bounced forward with short vicious yelps. Everybody 
laughed, and Ponto lay down with his head between his 
paws, looking very foolish. 

Pony forgot his embarrassment. At Pa’s hearty invitation 
he threw the burro’s pack on the grass and accepted the 
plate which Ma heaped with food. He sat on a log by the 



62 


The Shining Mountains 


fire, eating with his hunting knife. Danny made up with 
him immediately and insisted on perching on his knee and 
feeling of his whiskers. This pleased Pony, whose sun" 
browned features crinkled. He held the child in the crook 
of one arm and told him about the fox that lived on the hill 
and the rabbit that had a hole under a big tree. Now 
and then he gave the sociable Music a bite of his biscuit. 

“Is Pony your real name?” piped Tom, unable longer to 
smother his curiosity. “I never heard of anyone called Pony. 
But it’s a mighty nice name,” he added hastily, catching 
Ma’s eye. 

The old man chuckled. “Recollect I used to have another 
name. Seems like ’twas Elzy. But Pony suits me better. 
Runty horses is called ponies and Pm sorta runty built, you 
see. Then I alius liked to run pony races with the Injuns.” 

Danny had gone sound asleep so Ma bundled him off to 
bed. While Margie scraped the tin plates and Tom chopped 
kindling for morning, Pa questioned the visitor about the 
region to the west. 

“The Ute Injuns lives here,” Pony told him. “Thar’s a 
big camp of ’em now a little ways on at the sulphur springs. 
Once in a while the ’Rapahoes sends a war party in to cob 
lect a few scalps.” 

“Thought the Utes stayed at White River reservation 
most of the time,” said Pa. 

“Winters,” assented Pony. “Summers they come up here 
just like they used ter, and hunt and fish and fight the 
’Rapahoes. By gonny, them two tribes hates each other! 
You see, a long time ago a Ute brave stole the ’Rapahoe 



A Warning 


63 


chief’s daughter and the ’Rapahoes snuck into the momv 
tains for revenge. They caught the Utes at Grand Lake and 
drove ’em into the water and drowned a whole passel of 
’em. Since then most every year both tribes manages to lift 
a few scalps. Why, I could tell you—” and he launched 
into a description of a bloody battle. 

“Any white settlers?” Pa interrupted quickly. 

“Thar be a ranch or two in the Park and mebby a couple 
of trappers’ cabins along the Grand River. Feller by the 
name of Byers he’s stuck up his claim at them hot sulphur 
springs, but he’s in Denver mostly. Outside of those folks 
I don’t know of no one except the miners at Hahn’s Peak, 
and that’s away on beyond.” 

Margie stopped sloshing the dish water to listen. 

“I’ve heard tell there’s a big bend in the Yampa River 
that’s never been explored,” Pa went on. “I’ve a mind to 
travel down that direction. Know anything about the coun' 
try?” 

“Yampy?” muttered the mountaineer. 

“Yes. If it suits me that’s where I aim to homestead.” 

Pony lit his pipe with the end of a burning brand from 
the fire. He jerked to his feet and stood staring off into the 
darkness of the timber. “Wouldn’t go to the Yampy if I 
was you.” 

“You been there?” 

The prospector nodded slowly. It seemed to Margie 
there was a flash of fear in his eyes. He drew a breath so 
sharp it whistled through his teeth. “’Tain’t safe—that 
country.” 



64 


The Shining Mountains 


Pa appeared to grow a head taller. He straightened his 
shoulders. “Sort of reckon to have a look at it,” he said 
quietly. 

“We’re not afraid of lions or bears or Indians,” put in 
Tom. “What else is there to be afraid of?” 

Pony Wilson made no answer. Doggedly he loaded his 
pack upon the drowsing Music. “Fll be giftin' on,” he 
mumbled. With a cluck to the burro he stalked out of the 
firelight. “Pve warned ye!” he flung back as he disappeared 
in the shadows. “Keep away from the Yampy!” 


0 



Chapter Four 

A STRANGE DISCOVERY 

“’Well!” Tom broke the astonished silence. “Pony needn’t 
to’ve been so grumpy! We didn’t do anything!” 

Margie stood squeezing the dish rag in her hand. “Pa, 
what did he mean? About the Yampa?” 

Pa laughed. But he sounded provoked instead of amused. 
“Shuckins! I’ll warrant that old fellow’s never been close to 
the Yampa. Mountain men get queer. Live alone too much.” 

“Jimmy, he knows something he didn’t tell,” Ma worried. 
“Did you see the look of him?” 

“Yeah,” Tom wagged his head, “an’ he warned us to 
keep away.” 

Pa snorted. “If I’d listened to everybody who shelled out 
advice I’d still be back in Missouri plowing corn!” 

He picked up a stick, and seating himself on a log, began 
to whittle. Margie knew he was troubled no matter what 
he said. She hung her dish cloth on a bush, turned the fry' 
ing pan upside down on a convenient rock, and stood warm' 
ing herself by the fire. The wind blew smoke in her eyes, 
so she turned her back to the blaze and tried to see beyond 
those gaunt tree shadows. Away off yonder to the west lay 
the mysterious country of the Yampa River. She shivered. 

“Pony didn’t say where he was going or anything. He 
might have told us that much. Pa, why do you s’pose—” 

“Tut now!” Pa clicked his knife shut. “We’ll think no 
more about him. Son, where’s that music maker of yours? 
65 


66 


The Shining Mountains 


Can’t you start a good lively tune that we can all sing?” 

“Betcha! Pony Wilson nor nothin’ can’t scare me!” Tom 
proudly fitted the Jew’s harp against his lips and with one 
stubby finger twanged a note or two. 

Just then, from the opposite hill, came a thin hair-raising 
yell: Yip yip yip yip yee-ee-ee-eeeee — 

The player’s wind collapsed. 

“Coyote,” chuckled Pa. 

“Wisht he’d do his singin’ in the daylight,” muttered 
Tom. “I’ll start again.” 

“Hey get along, get along, Josey, 

Hey get along, Jim along, Joe . 

Pa led off in his strong baritone, and Ma joined in while 
she combed her brown hair and braided it for the night. 
Margie couldn’t squeeze any sound out of her throat for 
the ache of homesickness that was suddenly there. She 
leaned over to hide her brimming eyes and fumbled with 
her shoelaces. 

No sense at all to that little old darky song. But it 
brought up a picture of the dear cozy kitchen on the farm 
that she would never, never see again. She could hear 
wrinkled, black Aunt Frances humming it while she put 
away the highly polished pots and pans. She could even 
smell the wild crab apple blossoms just outside the open 
window. And there was Barbara Ellen, her chum, calling 
for her to come out and play in the soft summer dusk. . . . 

Nothing soft about this Colorado air! The minute the 
sun went down a chill went through her. And the mountain 
night was dreadfully big. Even music and singing couldn’t 



A Strange Discovery 


67 


make her forget where she was—west of the range. West 
of everything she knew. 

Pa's blue eyes were looking at her. Margie tugged so 
hard at a shoelace that it broke. Deliberately she knotted it. 
And just as deliberately she swallowed hard and lifted her 
chin. Even before she'd been born Pa had wanted a little 
daughter to stand up by him and sing. Grandma Crawford 
had told her so. Well she would stand up by him. And she 
would sing! No matter what! “Play Hold the Fort , Tom,'' 
she suggested. 

The blase gradually died down. Pa threw a log on the 
embers so the fire would last well into the night, and the 
family retired, leaving on most of their clothes for added 
warmth, but taking off their shoes. Ma was already snug' 
gled in the blankets with Danny when Margie crawled in 
beside them. Tom and Pa stretched out on the opposite 
side of the fire. The roar of the creek—the crackle of burn' 
ing wood— 

Everyone seemed to be asleep except Margie. What a 
miserable bumpy bed! It had as many peaks and bulges in 
it as the Continental Divide. She couldn’t curl herself around 
all of them. She'd been in such a hurry to spread the covers 
that she'd failed to put down enough soft spruce tips to 
cover the woody ends. In final desperation she yanked the 
boughs out from under her and smoothing the canvas and 
the comforter back in place, lay down for another try at 
sleep. She didn't think the ground could be so hard, spe' 
dally here where it was made of layers and layers of dry 
spruce needles. 



68 


The Shining Mountains 


Tired and cold and cross, she sat up again and tried to 
hollow a space to fit her hips and shoulders. Must be a rock 
in the way. No, it wasn’t a rock because her fingernails 
scratched into it. And it couldn’t be a root of the tree be- 
cause it had square corners. Besides, it moved a trifle when 
she shoved against it. 

“Margie,” it was her mother’s voice, “can’t you settle 
down?” 

“Oh, Ma!” The girl was on her knees, digging as hard as 
Ponto ever dug for a chipmunk. “I’ve found something! A 
box. Maybe it’s buried treasure!” She whisked spruce 
needles all over the bed clothes in her excitement. “Tom! 
Pa!” 

Tom came flying in his stocking feet. Pa took time to put 
on his shoes. Together they lifted the box, carrying it 
to the fire. It was made of heavy wood and was two-thirds 
as long as Pa’s arm. It was at least a foot across and perhaps 
eight inches high. From the appearance of the gray mold 
that clung to it, it had been buried there ever so long. The 
lid stoutly resisted their efforts to pry it off. 

“An old government ammunition box!” said Pa. 

“Whew, it’s heavy!” panted Tom. “I’ll bet it’s full of 
gold. Did you hear that clinking noise when we set it 
down?” 

“Here’s the ax,” chattered Margie. “Do hurry and open 
it, Pa.” 

With a splintering of boards most of the side finally came 
loose. Margie thrust her hand into the hole and pulled out 




Most of the side finally came loose 


















A Strange Discovery 


7i 


a fistful of cold hard objects. The firelight glanced sharply 
from half a dozen shiny surfaces. 

“Great geranium!’' exploded Tom. 

“What is it?" Ma wanted to know from the shadows. 

“Looking glasses! Little round looking glasses!" 

Margie sat back on her heels and stared. She might have 
been holding a handful of bright bubbles that reflected from 
various angles the amazed expression of her face. “Looking 
glasses! Away off here!" 

“That ain't all!" Tom probed deeper into the box. 
“Beads! Just see 'em!" 

“Ay Jonathan! Guess it's pretty plain who hid this here." 

“Who, Pa?" 

“Why, an Indian trader. Reckon he thought he'd come 
back and get it, but he never did. Looks as if he had to 
leave the country in a hurry and couldn't bother with this." 

“Betcha Injuns were chasin' him!" Tom momentarily 
deserted the center of interest to stand on one foot and hold 
the other to the fire. 

“Maybe there's something else in the bottom. Let's dump 
everything out on this saddle blanket," urged Margie. 

They emptied the box. Beads—red and blue and green, 
little and big—rolling in every direction; looking glasses— 
dozens of them just alike—flicking the fire back in their eyes. 
And that was all. 

“Well, well," said Pa, “it's kind of curious. Better hop 
into bed now and look these things over in daylight. I'll 
hoist this blanket into the wagon so the porcupines won't 
eat it." 



72 


The Shining Mountains 


Margie couldn't help a twinge of disappointment. ‘"Seems 
as if there ought to be something else. Buried chests in 
stories are always full of pirate gold or jewels." 

“Reckon we’re too far west for pirates. Now skip for 
the covers, both of you." 

“Sa-ay, it’s cold!" Tom made a dive for his blankets, and 
Pa immediately joined him, but Margie lingered, feeling 
once more inside the box. There was only the smooth grain 
of the wood and empty corners. With a sigh she gave up. 
As she withdrew her hand, a splintered edge of the cover 
snagged her wrist and she jerked back, toppling the box 
on its side. 

Thud l 

Such a faint sound, right under her. She set the chest 
straight and— thud! again. There was something—some' 
thing stuck far back under that fragment of top that had 
refused to come loose. A hasty groping exploration re' 
vealed the fac^ that it was not round like a mirror nor small 
like a bead, and part of it was caught in the crack just enough 
to allow the rest to knock against the side. What could it be? 

Fingers trembling with eagerness, Margie finally man' 
aged to pry it out. At first she thought it was a small black 
leather book with a queer gold catch on one side. That 
catch was evidently what had been mashed between the 
boards, for it was twisted out of shape. What an odd little 
volume! The pages seemed to be stuck together. There was 
only one groove where she could slip a thumbnail. 

And then the book fell open—why, it wasn’t a book at 
all! There in her hands lay a neat hinged case with a square 



A Strange Discovery 


73 


of crimson velvet on the left half and on the other—of all 
things—a faded daguerreotype! 

The rosy glow from the fire lighted up the face of a girl 
about her own age, and seemed to transform it from a gray 
and white impression to a living, smiling person. Margie 
was about to cry out. But Tom was already breathing heaw 
ily and Ma had closed her eyes. She threw a handful of 
twigs on the fire and in the quick blaze studied the picture. 
It had suffered little from being under the earth, for the 
box had been strong and tight. 

The girl who looked out at her from the gold oval of the 
frame had a delicate lovely face. Her hair was parted in the 
middle and combed carefully behind her ears. Her hands 
were folded decorously in her lap, but a sparkle of fun 
seemed to dance in her eyes. 

“You darling!” Margie breathed. “Who are you?” 

The smiling lips did not answer. Hugging the picture 
close, she crept back into bed. “Maybe,” she whispered, 
“maybe some day I’ll find out.” 

Next morning she exhibited her find. 

“Almighty strange!” Pa took it and turned it this way 
and that and scrutinized the leather case. “No telling how 
long the box has been buried. Maybe five, maybe a dozen 
years. The wood’s so hard it wouldn’t rot in a ’coon’s age.” 

“There’s no writing nor anything to tell about the pic- 
ture,” said Tom. “Wonder why it was in with a lot of 
looking glasses and beads. Betcha she was the old trader’s 
daughter and he had so many beaver hides he couldn’t carry 
his other stuff.” 



74 


The Shining Mountains 


“I think he was a young trader,” said Margie, “and 
this girl was his sweetheart back in the States. He hated like 
everything to part with her picture, but something terribly 
sudden happened and he had to hide it and flee for his life. 
Seems sort of funny,” she added, “somebody steals our own 
pictures, then we find this one!” 

They loitered over their breakfast making all kinds of 
conjectures. Ma didn't eat much. She sat with her big 
brown shawl around her shoulders. “I declare I can’t seem 
to get warm,” she sighed, “and my head’s as heavy as lead. 
But I’ll be better directly.” 

Pa peered at her anxiously over his coffee cup. “We’d 
best push on to those hot sulphur springs. Likely some of 
that water’d do you good, Em.” 

“But Hute and Henry—” 

“No particle of use to wait for them. They’ll get the 
freight over all right. Rollins ’ll help ’em.” Pa wouldn’t 
let on that he was uneasy. Margie knew, though. She saw 
him go out in the meadow and frown up at the rocks and 
snow of the range. A mighty big mountain. And the freight 
was heavy. But his first thought must be for Ma. 

By the time the sun was on the hillslopes the Crawfords 
had left the big spruce tree and were bumping along west' 
ward once more. No road to follow. Only a trail worn 
deep into the grass roots. Sometimes the right wheels were 
in it and sometimes the left. The box of beads and mirrors 
had been loaded in with the rest of the belongings. 

“Might come in handy,” said Pa. 

The daguerreotype Margie had put in the bag with her 



A Strange Discovery 


75 


sketch book. The sight of the sketch book had made her 
want to start right in drawing a dozen different things. But 
it was no use to try with the wagon rolling from side to side, 
sucking through mudholes or crunching over sagebrush. 

Tom had a lively time driving the stock. Spot, the long, 
shambling red cow, was the worst of the lot. She bowed her 
neck, determined to go her own way through the wide 
luscious meadow. Margie kept a sharp eye out for Indians. 
Every time she saw a stump through the trees she was sure 
it was a redskin and her heart did a flip-flop, though she told 
herself she wasn’t afraid of Utes even if they did scalp 
Arapahoes now and then. 

“What ’ll we do if we meet some Indians?” she asked Pa. 

He flapped the reins encouragingly along the heaving 
backs of the mules. “Well, now,” he said, “we’ll treat ’em 
the very best we know. They’re not much different from 
white folks. I reckon there’s good ones, bad ones, and 
middlin’ ones.” 

The day grew hot. The cows lost their friskiness. Tom 
reined his horse beside the wagon. “Pa, must be someone 
drivin’ a herd of cattle ahead of us. The ground’s all churned 
up with tracks.” 

“Buffalo,” corrected Pa. “Mountain buffalo. Some folks 
call ’em bison. And those dust holes are where they’ve 
wallowed to get rid of the flies.” 

“I’d like to roll in one myself,” exclaimed the boy, slap¬ 
ping at the red welts on his face and wrists. “Maybe that’d 
fix these old mosquitoes. I thought we’d be rid of ’em when 
we left Yankee Doodle Lake!” 



76 


The Shining Mountains 


The clouds of insect pests grew thicker. The deer flies 
fretted the stock almost beyond endurance and made Jack 
and Joe stamp and throw their heads. Pa rubbed a little 
chunk of saltside over their poor lumpy chests, which helped 
some. 

Margie got out to walk awhile. She glanced back at the 
snow they had come across yesterday and wished she could 
have a handful. Danny, trotting beside her, pointed a dim- 
pled fist. 

"Hoppy grass!” he chortled, running after a red-winged 
grasshopper. A moment later when his sister looked for 
him, he was nowhere to be seen. 

"Danny, where are you?” 

A pair of chubby legs kicked out of a deep wallow and 
a dusty bundle wriggled into sight. "Fix ole skeeters,” he 
announced, shaking himself like a small dog. 

"Danny! Oh, dirty!” Margie caught him up and brushed 
him off as best she could, but his pink calico dress was hope¬ 
lessly bedraggled. 

"Dirty!” he echoed, smearing his fist across his freckled 
face. "Me ride now.” 

By noon they had reached a small meadow which curled 
back into the hills. A tiny stream wound through it, and 
beside this in the shadow of a scraggly bunch of alders they 
halted to rest. 

"Buffalo stomping ground,” Pa pointed out as he un¬ 
hitched. "See where the critters have snagged their hair 
on the branches in scratching their backs. And the grass 
is all mashed down. I wouldn’t stop here, only the mules 



A Strange Discovery 


77 


are pretty tired and we’re headed right to cross that hill 
yonder. I have an idea the big Ute camp is just over the 
other side.” 

The family ate their lunch hovered over a smudge. Gen' 
tie old Peggy joined the circle, sticking her nose gratefully 
into the smoke while her colt fussed and whickered at her 
heels. Tobe found a gopher hole and crouched in the weeds 
to watch it. 

“If I can locate those buffalo I’ll get some meat,” Pa re' 
marked. After dinner he threw his saddle on Monty, took 
his gun, and accompanied by Spy, rode toward the butt of 
the hill. 

Ma lay down on the wagon sheet with her apron thrown 
over her head. “Margie, you might see if you could get 
Danny to sleep,” she said wearily. 

The girl settled herself in the shade of a bush and pulled 
her wide skirts over her ankles. She rocked the baby in 
her arms, whisking a leafy branch back and forth to keep 
away the mosquitoes. “Once upon a time there was a chip' 
munk,” she began in a low singsong voice, unaware that 
Ponto, stretched in the grass behind her had found her 
blue sunbonnet and was bound to chew the strings off if he 
could. Danny’s round little self grew limp with slumber 
and she too was drowsy. The monotonous drone of insects, 
the chump, chump of the grazing horses— 

Suddenly she jerked awake. Tom was rushing into 
camp. 

“Ma! Indians cornin’!” 

Ma jumped to her feet so fast she was dizzy and had to 



78 


The Shining Mountains 


grab an alder branch to keep from falling. "Mercy, son. 
What a start you gave me! Indians 11 not hurt us.” But 
she said swiftly to Margie, "Put Danny in the wagon. Cover 
him with my shawl.” 

Margie understood. Indians sometimes stole babies. And 
they liked red hair. More than once crossing the plains she 
and Ma had hidden Danny when roving prairie tribes had 
come to the wagon train. In haste she concealed him under 
the shawl, which was as big as a quilt, taking care he had 
space to breathe. He didn't wake up and she whirled to 
observe the two approaching horsemen. 

"Just a couple of half-grown boys,” breathed Ma, re- 
lieved. 

Margie squinted intently. Something familiar about them 
—the lithe grace of the leader, the wiry chunkiness of his 
companion. They loped their ponies into camp and pulled 
up short. 

"Why,” gasped the girl, "you're—you're—” 

"You're those 'Rapahoes we saw in Denver!” blurted 
Tom. "At the trader's!” 

"Well, I never!” said Ma. 

The Indians were startled, too, to recognise the white 
people. They exchanged a quick guttural and sat a moment 
in their stiff, skin-covered saddles, glancing about. Each 
carried a gun. Ponto dropped the sunbonnet, backed to a 
safe distance, and yelped at them. The leader saw the bit 
of blue calico in the grass. He swerved his horse, and lean¬ 
ing far to one side, snatched it up and brought it to Margie. 
A grin flashed across his face as he slid to the ground. 





A Strange Discovery 


79 


“How!” 

“Wherever did you come from?” she cried. 

He waved an arm toward the east. “Come over moun' 
tains. Travel many sleeps.” 

“Hey, did you foller us clear from Denver City?” de' 
manded Tom. 

The Indian boy emphatically shook his head. “We come 
hunt maybeso,” he declared. “See wagon track.” 

A wedge of suspicion entered Margie’s mind. Strange 
they should come so far to hunt. There was plenty of game 
nearer to the plains. They’d traveled fast, too, for sweat 
streaked their horses. “I’d think you’d be afraid in Ute 
country,” she frowned. “Or are the Utes and Arapahoes 
friends now?” 

“Huh! No friends!” snorted the second Indian with a 
scornful curl of his lip. “Heap no friends!” 

“What’d happen if they caught you?” 

“No catch.” A proud gleam came into the leader’s dark 
eyes. “Me Running Whirlwind! Him Wasani.” In spite 
of his boast his glance roved uneasily to the wooded slope 
above. 

The second Indian boy had jumped off his horse to 
peer into the wagon. Indians had an awful curiosity and 
always poked into everything they saw if they could. Mar' 
gie knew that from her experiences crossing the plains. 
She didn’t care if Wasani looked in the wagon, but it pro' 
voked her to have the two boys jabber back and forth in 
Indian which she couldn’t understand. They could talk 




8o 


The Shining Mountains 


English if they had a mind. There was something they 
didn’t want the Crawfords to know. 

“Like as not you’re hungry,” said Ma, and rummaged 
in the dinner box that still sat on the ground. 

Running Whirlwind didn’t seem to hear. His bright, 
beaded moccasins moved about in the dust. His restless gase 
searched the hill. Meanwhile the Indian horses had gone 
down to water, dragging their braided hair reins. Ponto 
didn’t like them and sprang at their heels, nipping with 
needledike teeth. The snorting ponies broke into a run, 
crashing through the alder to join the Crawford stock 
that was fighting flies sixty yards down gulch. Running 
Whirlwind started after them. He brought up at a sudden 
sharp cry from Wasani. 

“Utes!” 

There was a drumming of hoofs over the hill, and a shrill 
wolf'keyed yell. Four copper'skinned horsemen raced down 
upon the camp. The Arapahoe lads were so swift to crouch 
behind the wagon that Margie doubted if they had been 
seen. But they would be in another minute! No chance 
to reach their horses and escape. Born enemies—Utes and 
Arapahoes! What would happen? 



Chapter Five 

UNWELCOME GUESTS 

For a second the Crawfords stood rooted to the spot. 
Through Margie’s mind flashed all the gruesome things she 
had ever heard about Indian warfare, and on top of these 
the bloody tales Pony Wilson had told. Then she saw 
Running Whirlwind and Wasani grip their old buffalo guns 
purposefully. 

“What you goin’ to do?” 

“We fight!” 

“Nonsense!” snapped Ma. “Hide in that wagon. They 
haven’t seen you.” 

“Catch us like rabbits!” 

“Mind me!” Ma gave him a vigorous push. 

“We won’t let ’em find you!” panted Margie, pulling at 
his sleeve. “Hurry!” 

For a brief instant he hesitated. Then with a shrug he 
hoisted himself over the end'gate. At his guttural com- 
mand Wasani leaped up beside him. 

“Under here!” With one flip Margie unfolded the shawl 
that covered her baby brother so it would conceal all three 
of them. But Danny, awakened by the commotion, let out 
a cry and came tumbling into her arms. 

“Hush, baby, hush!” She took him and hid his face 
against her dress and plumped down at the back of the 
wagon in such haste that she bumped her head against the 
wagon bow. Her heart was going lickety'thump! 

81 


82 


The Shining Mountains 


Ma was ordering Tom, “Get on Peggy and find your pa!" 

The dust rolled down the hill around the galloping horses. 
What if those four riders had glimpsed the Arapahoes! Even 
if they hadn’t, the crude Indian saddles on the boys’ ponies 
would make them suspicious. Luckily the ponies were half' 
hidden in the alders among the Crawford stock, and Margie 
hoped to goodness they would stay there. 

The riders dashed into camp showing off with their horses. 
Maybe they were just curious. Maybe they’d be friendly. 
Pa had said there were good Indians—and bad ones and 
middling ones. None of these looked very good. The leader 
was a big, fat, greasy'skinned fellow with small gleaming 
eyes. He wore white man’s trousers and a very dirty shirt 
of blue and white bed ticking. 

Straight at Ma he drove his mount, plunging through 
the feebly smoking smudge and sending a cloud of ashes 
over everything. Barely in time, he wheeled, missed her by 
inches, and slid to a spectacular stop. 

“Me Colorow!’’ He thumped his chest. 

He was trying to scare them. Ponto scuttled under the 
wagon, growling shrilly. Ma stood her ground though every 
speck of color had gone out of her face. She put her hands 
on her hips and attempted to sound severe, but her voice 
seemed to come from a mile away. “What do you want?’’ 

“Me Colorow!’’ repeated the Indian. “Beescuit!" 

“Biscuit? I give you biscuit.’’ Ma started for the lunch 
box. 

Colorow rolled clumsily off his mount and waddled after 
her. His three braves trailed behind. They were naked to 



Unwelcome Guests 


83 


the waist and each had a gun. Their roving black eyes saw 
everything. Margie spread her skirts wide, taking up as 
much room as she could in the hooped opening at the 
wagon’s rear. Danny, who had risked a peek around his 
sister’s arm, burrowed his head into her dress again, lust' 
ily expressing his dislike of the visitors. Colorow came to 
peer at him and poked a dirty finger in the tousled red 
hair. Margie snatched the child away. 

Ma had had time to grab a cloth sack of leftover bread. 
“Here! Biscuit!” She thrust the bag under Colorow’s nose 
and plucked Danny from Margie’s arms. 

The Ute leader grunted and crammed a generous piece 
of a flaky white morsel into his mouth. Then he stuffed 
the entire sack into the front of his shirt, despite the grum' 
blings of his braves. Now he stood, staring insolently about 
him. 

If Pa would only come! Margie strained to catch a glimpse 
of him returning through the brush of the hill, but not even 
Tom was in sight. 

Colorow spied the rich plaid wool of Ma’s shawl behind 
Margie, and his eyes glinted. “Heap catchum blanket!” he 
declared, reaching for it. 

Under that shawl lay the two Arapahoes, tribal enemies 
of the Utes! Their grandfathers had scalped each other, 
and their fathers. And now—? 

“Oh, no! You can’t. Look! Look here!” Just in time 
she thought of the box of beads and looking glasses that 
was wedged in right there by her feet. Lifting and panting 
she got it into the sunlight, but it was too heavy for her. 



84 


The Shining Mountains 


Down it crashed to the ground, bottom side up. There was 
a crack and tinkle of broken glass, and wild spattering of red, 
blue, and green beads everywhere. 

“Hah!” The three braves pounced upon them. Colorow 
vacillated. 

“You like beads?” Margie jumped from the wagon, 
snatched up a handful and let the bright beads sift through 
her fingers. “And looking glasses! See!” The sun shot 
bright lights from the shiny surfaces. She flashed them tan- 
talizjingly before him. 

He caught his reflection in one. With a pleased grunt he 
shouldered the other Indians aside and squatted by the heap 
of trinkets. He trickled the pretty ornaments from one hand 
to the other, admiring them like a child. He tried this 
looking glass and that, twisting his features into every sort 
of ridiculous expression, and when he tired of that he thrust 
the little round glasses into the faces of the others and they 
all grimaced and laughed. Apparently he had forgotten 
about the shawl. 

Ma and Margie exchanged hopeful glances. Surely Tom 
had reached Pa by now, and it wouldn’t take the two long 
to come back. Not when Pa found out there were Indians 
bothering about. Danny had cried himself out and now clung 
to his mother, wide-eyed and still. Ponto whimpered. If 
the Utes would only keep themselves amused a while longer! 

Margie listened with all her ears for the sound of gallop¬ 
ing hoofs. Mosquitoes sang around her. The creek gurgled 
through the grass. The horses down in the alders swished 
their tails. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. 



Unwelcome Guests 


8 5 


The Arapahoes must lie still. They mustn’t even breathe. 
Their enemies were right there within a yard or two. 

The Utes were beginning to tire of their present occupa' 
tion and they’d soon be ready for something else. An argu' 
ment arose as to the possession of the beads and mirrors. 
Colorow promptly settled the matter by scooping the trea' 
sure into the box and making off with it. Halfway to his 
horse he paused. 

Margie held her breath. “Go on! Go on!” She wished 
so hard that she almost said the words aloud. Why didn’t 
Pa hurry? 

“He’s coming back,” Ma whispered. “Mercy to good' 
ness!” 

The Indian’s greedy eyes once more surveyed the rich 
brown fabric of the shawl. “Colorow catchum blanket!” 
he insisted. 

“You leave that shawl be!” Ma bristled. “And take 
yourselves off! Hear?” 

He didn’t intend to be stopped by a plump little woman 
in calico. “Heap good blanket!” he grunted, and thudded on. 

That knife in Colorow’s belt—was it a scalping knife? 
Margie flung herself into the wagon and sat hard on the 
end of the shawl. How huge the Indian looked! Three 
times as big as she. And his coarse features were set in a 
self'satisfied smirk. He knew she couldn’t stop him, the 
great big bully! Her cheeks grew hot as fire. Till now she’d 
been scared, scared almost to pieces. But suddenly she 
wasn’t frightened one speck. She was plain angry! As he 



86 


The Shining Mountains 


caught at the shawl she landed a wallop with the flat of her 
palm smack in his ugly face. 

A gasp from Ma. An astonished grunt from the Indian. 
No telling what might have happened if, at that instant, 
there hadn’t come a loud halloo from the meadow. Pa! He 
was racing at top speed with Tom pounding behind him on 
old Peg and the colt doing its best to keep up. 

Colorow glared at Margie so fiercely that she quaked 
every time she remembered it afterward. However, he 
relinquished the idea of the blanket, and grabbing the box 
to him, with a disastrous crunching sound of the biscuit in 
his shirt, got up on his pony. 

Pa looked perfectly splendid when he dashed into camp, 
blue eyes flashing at sight of Ma’s white face. “What’s go- 
ing on here?” he demanded, riding straight up to the Ute 
leader. “What’s that you’ve got?” 

“It’s all right, Jimmy,” Ma interposed hastily. “We—we 
gave him that box. Tell them all to go away.” 

“Nothing wrong, Em?” 

“Just send them off!” 

“Yes, Pa! Please!” 

Spy was sniffing around the wagon. The dog knew there 
were strangers there. She’d call attention to the Arapahoes, 
sure as anything! Besides, the shawl had slipped a little. 
Margie gave it a sidewise pull and to her consternation saw 
a portion of a beaded moccasin appear. Though it was 
quickly withdrawn, one of the Utes might have seen it. 

The leader was looking at Pa, and more especially at the 
shiny-barreled gun in Pa’s hand. “Me Colorow!” he stated. 




She landed a wallop smack in his ugly face 
























































Unwelcome Guests 


89 


“Me Big Jim,” returned Pa in an equally forceful tone. 

The Indian eased the box into a more comfortable posi" 
tion, balancing it on the neck of his pony. “Heap prend!” 
he observed. 

“Prend” thought Margie. “I s’pose he means friend. But 
he isn’t our friend. I know. Oh, I wish they’d go!” 

Pa seemed in no hurry to be rid of them. Why did he 
have to ask all about the Indian camp and the trail over 
the hill? He couldn’t know that every minute spelled dan" 
ger. At last she heard him say, “You hunt buffalo? Big 
herd over that ridge.” 

The younger braves evidenced interest and they finally 
all started off. Before they had gone a dozien yards Pa spied 
the Arapahoe horses which just then wandered into view. 

“These yours?” he called. 

Ma gestured toward him futilely. 

“Whatever is the matter, Em?” 

“Those horses—” Margie began, but dared not say an" 
other word. 

The Utes paused, jabbering among themselves. If Pa 
hadn’t been there—if he hadn’t carried his gun so handy— 
One of the braves fell out of line, caught the horsehair 
bridles of the Arapahoe ponies, and led them away. 

Margie leaned against the wagon, feeling queer and shaky. 
She made sure the Utes were out of sight before she gave 
the signal. “There! They’ve gone. You can come out 
now.” 

The blanket humped abruptly into two mounds and the 
Indian boys sprang from their hiding place. 



go 


The Shining Mountains 


“Bless me, what’s this?” cried her father. 

Everybody tried to talk at once. Tom’s voice soared above 
the rest. 

“ ’Rapahoes,” he explained. “We rode so fast I couldn’t 
tell you. The minute I said Indians—” 

“Arapahoes!” 

“An’ I betcha there’d have been a reg’lar battle if we 
hadn’t hid ’em quick. Great geranium, old Colorow looked 
mean!” 

“He tried to take the shawl, Pa,” Margie chattered, “and 
I snapped him!” 

“Well I be drawed!” Pa’s face was a study. 

“You see,” she hurried on, “the ’Rapahoes are sort of 
friends. Leastwise we saw ’em in Denver. And we couldn’t 
let ’em get scalped!” 

Pa’s keen gaze rested on the Indian lads. “What you 
young uns figure to do in Ute country?” 

“Maybeso hunt,” Running Whirlwind answered guard' 
edly. 

Pa shook his head. “ ’Tisn’t likely.” 

“Maybeso fight,” came the next suggestion. 

“Hmp!” Pa was not convinced. 

“I’m sorry the Utes took your horses,” Margie inter 
rupted. “Whatever will you do?” 

“We getum back,” Running Whirlwind assured her. 
“Little Bear say so.” 

“Bear?” She glanced hastily about her. 

“Little Bear here,” explained the boy. He pulled a small 
talisman from under his shirt where he had worn it on a 



Unwelcome Guests 


9i 


buckskin thong. It appeared to be tarnished silver, but it 
hardly resembled a bear, very dumpy at best, with a round 
knob for a head and an oblong one for a body. 

“Oh, I see,” said Margie. “It’s a charm. Like the rabbit’s 
foot Aunt Frances used to have. But of course it can’t talk.” 

“Bear talk,” the boy stated solemnly. “All Indians know.” 

Wasani pointed to it and muttered. 

“What’s he say?” asked the girl. 

“He say Little Bear save our lives.” 

Danny, clambering at his sister’s knee, lifted chubby hands 
for the dangling “pretty,” but the Indian swung it beyond 
his reach and with a swift motion thrust the buckskin loop 
over Margie’s head. 

“Good medicine,” he said hurriedly. “You keep. Colorow 
heap bad Indian.” 

Wasani looked at his companion as if he had lost his 
senses. “No! Running Whirlwind keep!” he urged. His 
brown fingers grasped at the trinket and his eyes were sharp 
with anxiety. “Willow Woman no like. Willow Woman 
your mother. Little Bear good medicine for Running Whirl' 
wind!” 

“Hah!” declared the other with a proud lift of his head. 
“Running Whirlwind old enough look out for himself. Be' 
sides, moccasins carry sign of bear. Just as good medicine.” 
He pointed to the pattern on his toes. It evidently repre' 
sented a bear’s foot with three very sharp blue claws at' 
tached to a triangle of red. Then he took Margie’s hand and 
closed it over the silver talisman. “White girl heap brave. 
Running Whirlwind give!” 



92 


The Shining Mountains 


Before Margie could stammer her thanks the two of them 
were vanishing down the draw. She fingered the strange 
token curiously. With the hem of her dress she tried to 
rub off the scratches that marred its smoothness. Maybe 
with fine sand she could polish it. There was one deep pitted 
mark that would always be there. 

“Good medicine,” frowned Tom, hooking his chin over 
her shoulder, “what did he mean—good medicine?” 

“I s’pose that’s the Indian way of saying good luck,” said 
his sister. “If I wear it, Pa, do you think it really could—” 

“Never was a charm that amounted to shucks.” Pa 
weighed the metal in his hands and looked uncommon 
thoughtful. “A body makes his own luck most generally 
accordin’ to how he squares up and faces things that come.” 

“Anyhow Running Whirlwind believed he was giving 
me something nice,” said Margie. “Guess I’ll wear it just 
for fun.” 

“Not with that dirty cord, I hope,” Ma said primly. 
“There’s a ribbon in my trunk. When we get settled—” 

“Sooner we get started the sooner that ’ll be.” Pa began 
to hitch the mules and Tom rounded up the stock. Tobe 
leaped back of his saddle to ride with him. Margie put 
the Little Bear in her pocket, wadding her handkerchief 
on top to be sure not to lose it. 

What a long hot pull to the top of the divide! And 
when they reached it there was nothing to see but more 
mountains ahead—gray with sagebrush on one side, and 
black with timber on the other. None of them was the least 
bit shining, reflected Margie. The trail led down a long 



Unwelcome Guests 


93 


twisting gulch which was like a crooked green trough, a 
wide dusty trail worn by many pony hoofs. Spy sniffed 
the air uneasily. Tobe’s whiskers twitched. The afternoon 
lengthened toward night. Bunches of gray clouds appeared 
above the hill opposite, while the sun grew dull and reddish 
behind a film of ha^e. 

“The day’s been a weather breeder,” exclaimed Ma. “Too 
hot. We can expect rain.” 

They dropped into a little pocket of a valley and saw the 
river, and across the river gray scarred bluffs, and on the 
side of the sagebrush flat, a town of tepees. The tepees 
were made of hides smoked a rich reddish brown, and they 
had poles sticking out of their tops like bristles of broom' 
straws. 

“Must be eighty or a hundred lodges,” Pa estimated. 

“Will it be safe to camp near Indians?” worried Ma. 

“Every bit as safe as if we were back in Missouri,” said 
Pa largely. “Giddap, Jack! Giddap, Joe!” 

Campfires winked through the dusk. Ute children ran 
and laughed and played. A horse nickered. Everything 
seemed peaceful enough, but just the same Tom ke;pt plenty 
close to the wagon. “Hope Colorow isn’t here,” he mut' 
tered. 

Margie squirmed. Had Colorow returned from hunting? 
Maybe he was watching them right this minute. She’d 
heard that an Indian never forgot. And she’d slapped him! 
Slapped Colorow! “He deserved it,” she thought uncoim 
fortably, “but I wish I hadn’t done it!” 



Chapter Six 

PA HAS A HANKERING 

The arrival of the wagon was heralded by the barking of 
dogs and the excited screeching of Indian children. The Ute 
camp swarmed out to meet the newcomers. Braves on their 
ponies, fat squaws scuttling along, halhnaked youngsters. 

““Mercy to goodness!" Ma squeezed Danny so tightly 
that he wriggled. 

"Nothing to worry about," assured Pa. "They’re just 
curious. See that old fellow on the pinto horse? He must 
be the chief from the fancy bead work on his shirt. I’ll 
ask him where’s a good place to camp." He stopped the 
team and raised a hand, palm open, in sign of greeting. The 
Indian lifted his hand in answering sign and brought his 
pony up to the wagon. 

"How!" 

"How!" said Pa. "We come long way." He swung an 
arm toward the range. "Squaw, papooses heap tired. Like 
to sleep now. You show us good place?" 

One of the Indian’s eyes was a cloudy white, but his good 
eye, bright and black, gleamed at them in apparent interest. 
He had a broad, kindly face, and the two braids that hung 
down the front of his shoulders jiggled energetically as he 
motioned to the western end of the valley which tapered 
toward a canyon. "Heap rocks." His square brown hands 
showed how the rocks were shelving and would be shelter 
from the rain that would "maybeso heap come down." 


94 


Pa Has a Hankering 


95 


Pa thanked him and drove on. The Indians followed. 
Thank goodness Colorow wasn’t among them. Chattering 
and pointing, they watched the Crawfords pitch camp. Pa 
whistled unconcernedly. He didn’t seem to mind if the 
whole Ute nation observed him. Tom made out he didn’t 
care either and stamped off to the river for a bucket of water. 
But Margie glanced nervously over her shoulder as she 
started a fire to cook supper. So many pairs of prying eyes! 
So many strange, dark faces! Ma kept close track of Danny. 
Spy backed under the rocks, whimpering, while Ponto made 
short snarling sallies toward the ugly little Indian dogs. Tobe 
took refuge in the wagon. 

“Beescuit! Beescuit!” begged the squaws, and one bolder 
than the rest came to show Ma a tiny red'faced papoose 
slung in a cradleboard on her back. “Beescuit for papoose!” 
she insisted. 

“Why, it’s only just born!” exclaimed Margie. “It 
couldn’t eat a biscuit if it had to!” 

Anyhow there was no bread. Colorow had taken it all. 
And there was not much meat and mighty little else. 

“I’ll have to stir up something,” said Ma, “but Jimmy, 
we can’t feed the whole country!” 

Even Pa was stumped. The old Ute chief disappeared 
for a time. When he came back he fetched a slim Indian 
youth of about fifteen. 

“Me Yarmony,” spoke the chief. “Thees Pawinta, son 
of my brother. Bring pish. Heap good!” 

Pish . Fish, of course. The boy had a nice catch of speck' 
led trout strung on the forks of a willow. He had doubtless 



96 


The Shining Mountains 


hooked them for his own family’s supper, but he grinned 
and thrust them at Pa. 

"Well now, that’s mighty fine!” boomed Pa. "Mighty 
fine!” 

The trout were cold as ice and neatly cleaned, so that 
even Ma’s particular eye could find no fault. Yarmony got 
off his horse and uttered a few positive grunts. Magically 
the circle of brown faces melted away till only a choice few 
of the braves remained. These solemnly seated themselves 
about the fire and waited for Ma to cook the fish. 

Pa tried to converse with the visitors. "That country 
over yonder—trails—where go?” 

Yarmony nodded, held up two fingers, and went through 
a series of motions with his hands. "Mountains,” he fin' 
ished. "Heap yonder.” 

"Yes, I’ve heard of the Rabbit Ear peaks,” said Pa. "You 
know big bend of Yampa River? What’s down there?” 

The black eyes around the circle remained impassive. Pa 
attempted in various ways to make the Utes understand, 
but by the time the crisp trout had gone down willing 
throats he knew little more than he had at the beginning. 

After supper Yarmony produced a curious long clay pipe. 
He crushed a bit of dried bark into the bowl, lighted it with 
a stick from the fire, and drew upon it. He passed it to Pa, 
who had to take it though he didn’t much like to, and he 
in turn gave it to a brave named Two Feathers. Thus it 
proceeded ceremoniously around the group. 

The fragrance of the smoke was pleasant. Tom, who had 
stuck right at Pa’s elbow all evening went sound asleep sit' 



Pa Has a Hankering 


97 


ting up. Margie didn’t believe she could ever close her eyes 
for thinking of Colorow. She made up her mind to stay 
awake all night and listen and watch. Pa had fastened one 
end of the tarpaulin to the side of the wagon and had pegged 
the other to the ground to make a sort of tent. 

Margie, kneeling on the blankets to help Ma peel the drag" 
gled dress from the slumbering Danny, felt something drop 
from her pocket. The Little Silver Bear. It made her re" 
member Running Whirlwind and Wasani, and she won" 
dered where they were and if she’d ever see them again. 
The charm she put in her blue bag for safekeeping, along 
with her sketch book and the daguerreotype. 

The shadows of the Indians grew suddenly long upon the 
canvas. They were padding off to their tepees. Pa banked 
the fire and the family went to bed. The river galloped 
through the canyon . . . the breeze flickered the flames of 
the dying fire. . . . Mountains heap yonder . . . trails—where 
go? . . . Yarmony won’t. . . . 

There was a loud boom of thunder, and white cracks of 
lightning. Margie, pulling the quilt over her head, dug 
deeper into her warm nest. It must be the middle of the 
night and it was raining to beat the band. The spray came 
sweeping under the wagon sheet and the blankets on the 
outer edge were soon sodden. She inched a little closer to 
Ma and curled into a tight ball. 

By morning the storm had passed. The warm sun 
streamed into the valley. Margie’s clothes, which she had 
put under the first layer of bedding, felt clammy and one 
shoe was full of water. She emptied it disgustedly, and 



9 8 


The Shining Mountains 


slipping on the other, hopped to the fire where Tom’s cloth' 
ing had already reached a comfortable steamy stage. 

Pa strode up from the flat where he had gone to see about 
the stock. "Looks as if those Arapahoe boys got their horses 
back,” he announced. "They sneaked into the valley under 
cover of the storm and stampeded the Ute herd. Least' 
wise I reckon that’s who it was. A bunch of braves have 
lit out after ’em.” 

"I hope the boys get away!” cried Margie. 

"It’s a wonder our stock didn’t stampede with the rest.” 

"Running Whirlwind and Wasani wouldn’t take our 
horses. We’re their friends!” 

Pa looked stem. "It’s all right to make friends,” he said, 
"but I’m afraid those boys aren’t here for any good. Re' 
member, we’re going to have to live among the Utes.” 

They ate their breakfast standing up around the fire, 
turning first one side, then the other till their clothes dried 
on them. In daylight they could see a lot of things they’d 
missed last night. A cloud of steam was rising across the 
river. 

"That’s the hot sulphur spring,” said Pa. "The water 
might do you good, Em. If you say so we’ll ride over there.” 

Ma glanced at the swollen river and shook her head. "I 
feel fit as a fiddle,” she declared positively. Margie helped 
her dump the rain water out of creases in the tarpaulin and 
spread the blankets on bushes in the sun. 

Pa got out his gun. "I look for Hute and Henry today,” 
he said. "Reckon I’d better go and get a deer so we’ll have 
something to eat.” 



Pa Has a Hankering 


99 


He saddled Monty and struck up the ridge. From the 
keen light in his blue eyes Margie knew he intended to see 
over that ridge, and she wished she could go with him. But 
she had to be content with exploring close to camp. She 
and Tom climbed the shelving rocks, finding a woodchuck 
den and some swallows’ nests. Tom picked up a big owl 
feather and stuck it in his hat. They craned their necks 
to see down the steep lichen'crusted walls of the canyon to 
the river that dashed itself to white foam against the 
boulders. They discovered a cold sulphur spring in a hoh 
low of the hill and lay down on their stomachs to sample it. 

“Phooey!” sputtered Tom. “Tastes like an old rubber 
boot.” 

Pa came back the middle of the afternoon with a fat 
deer slung across his saddle. 

“Oh, what’s over the ridge?” cried Margie. 

“A mighty big country!” Pa began to dress out the deer. 
“Son, you been keeping track of the cattle? As I came down 
the hill I couldn’t see Spot.” 

“If she ain’t the beatinest!” grumbled the boy. “Come on, 
Marge, help me find her.” 

They peered into thickets and behind clumps of trees. No 
Spot. Margie climbed a rock and scanned the brush below. 
The Indian camp was in plain view. Lasy feathers of smoke 
rose from the fires over which squaws were puttering. Sud' 
denly the whole camp flocked out to meet half a dosen re' 
turning braves who were driving a bunch of horses before 
them. Some of the stolen stock, no doubt. What had hap' 
pened to Running Whirlwind and Wasani? Had the Utes 



100 


The Shining Mountains 


captured them? She watched anxiously a few minutes. 
‘"Guess they got away,” she said aloud, her spirits rising. 

Just then her quick eyes caught a movement in the sage' 
brush at the eastern end of the valley. A wagon drawn by 
four horses was joggling slowly along the trail. The freight 
outfit! Following were two strangers on horseback and a 
pack animal. Down the hill she plunged. 

“Tom! Tom!” 

He answered from a short distance below. “Come here. 
Sis. Quick! Spot’s got a calf!” 

“Oh, Tom, the freight wagon’s coming! And somebody 
else—” 

“The wagon!” Tom abandoned the calf. They slid and 
tumbled down the hill, shouting and waving. By the time 
they reached camp, Big Hute Richardson had driven in and 
was wrapping the reins around the brake handle. “You^all 
ain’t been scalped yet, I see.” 

How good to hear his long Missouri drawl! And he 
could grin even though that cut on his lip still looked mean. 
Uncle Henry leaped over the wheel and tossed Danny in the 
air. Then he took Margie by her elbows and lifted her high 
too, as if she were still a little girl! 

“Ay Jonathan, I’m glad you got in!” said Pa. “Have any 
more trouble?” 

“Only tipped over twice.” 

“I hope the stove wasn’t broken!” cried Ma. 

“Not a bit.” Hute wiped the sweaty harness stains from 
the nearwheeler with a handful of cool grass. “Set it up 
for you right away. Think maybe we lost that keg of 



Pa Has a Hankering 


IOI 


molasses, though.” He pulled a long face and looked at Tom, 
his eyes twinkling. 

“Aw, you’re jokin’!” Tom lit into him with joyful fists. 

“Who’s this?” Paw saw the two horseback riders. For 
the first time Margie really took a good look at the strangers. 

One of them had long brindle hair that reached to his 
shoulders, and he made a great business of jerking his head 
to show it off. He was short and wiry, and his buckskin 
coat was shiny with dirt and grease. In the holster on his 
thigh was a big yellow-handled gun. His companion was a 
lean, gaunt-faced fellow with a faded red bandana around 
his neck and a snakeskin band around his hat. 

“We met these gents at the joinin’ of the Berthoud trail,” 
said Hute. “If I recollect, this is Mr. Sam Thompson, and 
t’other—” 

“Pleased to meetcha!” broke in the long-haired one. “This 
here’s my pardner. Answers to the name of Bigfoot.” 

“That’s right,” agreed the lean individual. “Bigfoot’s 
what they call me.” He stuck out his feet to observe their 
proportions pridefully. Having established his identity, he 
dismounted and began to tug at the cinch straps. All fur¬ 
ther conversation he left to Sam. 

“Mebby you’ve heard o’ me,” remarked the long-haired 
fellow, also dismounting. “They call me Ute Sam or the 
Terror of Salt Lake!” 

“Why?” demanded Tom. “ ’Cause you look like a wild 
man?” 

Hute laughed, and Pa turned red with embarrassment. 
Ute Sam glared around him. He dragged his gun from its 



102 


The Shining Mountains 


holster and exhibited a row of notches in its yellow handle. 
“Them’s why!” he swaggered. 

“Ay Jonathan!” Pa winked at Tom. 

The boy winked back to show that Sam didn’t have him 
fooled either. “I betcha—” he confided to Margie pr v 
vately, “I betcha that’s all bluff.” 

The strangers made themselves right at home. Bigfoot 
helped Pa put up the tent, but Sam sprawled comfortably 
with his head on his saddle and looked on. “I’d lend a 
hand,” he explained, “only this time o’ night I git kind of 
a crick in my back.” 

“Huh!” snorted Tom under his breath. “Crick nothin’!” 

Hute and Uncle Henry set the stove up and wired a length 
of pipe between two trees so the wind wouldn’t blow it 
over. Ma hovered about the small range, wiping off the 
dust. “ ’Tisn’t hurt a mite,” she said. “It’s just as good as 
ever.” Her eyes began to sparkle. She climbed into the 
wagon and when she backed out she had something hidden 
under her apron. “Surprise!” she laughed. “Three guesses 
what we’re going to have for supper.” 

“Dried apple pie,” guessed Pa promptly, feeling sure that 
he knew everything in that wagon. 

“Watermelon,” hazarded Tom. 

“Goosey!” reproved his sister. “Watermelons don’t grow 
this side of Missouri, and besides it’s the wrong season.” 

“Just the same,” he let out a tremendous sigh, “wisht it 
was.” 

Margie squinted at the object under Ma’s apron. “Oh, 
I know! Muffins! Ma’s brought the muffin iron!” 



Pa Has a Hankering 


103 


This was no ordinary pan. There were eight depressions 
for batter—each a different shape. It was hard to tell ex¬ 
actly what some of them were meant to be. But anyone 
could recognize the apple and the peach. And there was a 
fat oak leaf—or maybe it was a cabbage—and a scalloped 
rosette. Very best of all was the pear. There was always 
a scramble for the pear when Ma started the bread around, 
piping hot. 

Pa had a funny look on his face. “Why, I thought we left 
that in Missouri,” he said. 

Ma flushed. “I know we decided most of the cooking pots 
were too heavy to bring, but I couldn’t bear to leave this, 
Jimmy. So I wrapped it in the feather bed.” 

Pa threw back his head and roared. 

“We had to give up so many things,” faltered Ma. “I 
thought if I could just bring this and my little wooden bowl 
and the brass kettle to cook pickles in—” 

Pa sobered instantly. “I’m mighty glad you did, Em! I 
can’t think of anything I’d rather have right now than 
honest-to-goodness muffins.” 

It was almost dark when Tom remembered about Spot. 
Hute went with him to help drive her and the new calf 
down. 

“That’s the start of our herd,” said Pa. “We can’t run 
any risks of wolves or coyotes.” 

When they came back the coffee pot was sending out 
spurts of fragrant steam and Ma was calling, “Get your 
plates, everybody. The meat’s done to a turn and the 



104 


The Shining Mountains 


muffins—” She opened the oven door and lifted them out 
with a flourish. 

“I got the peach,” discovered Margie a minute later. 
“What’d you get, Tom?” 

“Oh, nothin’.” The boy looked aggrievedly at Ute Sam. 
Sam had the pear. Taking a luscious bite of it, he wiped 
the back of his hand across his mouth before he replied to 
Pa’s query. 

“Oh, we’re jest moseyin’ around, Bigfoot an’ me. Doin’ 
a little prospectin’,” he said vaguely. “You aim to take up 
a claim hereabouts?” 

“We haven’t decided,” Ma said, giving Pa a quick glance. 
“Seems to me this might be a nice place to settle. When the 
road’s finished other folks ’ll be coming. It’s a natural place 
for a town, don’t you think, Jimmy?” 

Pa stood up, his back to the fire, his blue eyes dreamy 
with distance. “There’s better beyond,” he said. “That 
Yampa country, now—” 

Yampa. The very word sent a prickle of foreboding 
through Margie. She laid the last bite of her muffin on her 
cold tin plate and stared into the dark gash of the canyon. 
“Keep away from the Yampy!” Pony Wilson’s warning 
beat sharply upon her memory. 

“Oh, Pa, not there!” Her voice sounded small and fright' 
ened in the silence that had fallen. “There must be lots 
of other places.” 

He didn’t seem to hear her. “Yes sir,” he was exclaiming, 
“we’re still headed west. I’ve got an almighty hankering 
to see into the Yampa Valley!” 



Chapter Seven 
TRAILS WEST 

There was no use arguing with Pa. Nothing would do 
but that he must go on to the Yampa. Margie thought he 
had surely caught a glimpse of the Shining Mountains from 
the top of the ridge and next day at breakfast she asked him. 
He laughed and said he wasn’t looking for mountains so 
much as green valleys and pasture land. 

“But I reckon to find most anything out yonder,” he 
added. “Ay Jonathan!” 

Hute volunteered to go with him on horseback to spy 
out the country. Uncle Henry said somebody had better 
stay here at Hot Sulphur Springs to take care of the family, 
and he’d do that. 

“We’ll get everything in shape today,” planned Pa, “and 
tomorrow at crack of dawn Hute and I’ll pull out.” 

All morning the men worked to make the camp more 
comfortable. And Margie helped Ma fix a poke of provisions 
for Pa and Hute to take with them. When everything was 
done Hute and Uncle Henry got on their horses and rode 
across the river to see the sulphur spring. Ute Sam and 
Bigfoot were already over there. Pa chopped kindling, while 
Tom and Margie piled it back under the rocks and Ma and 
Danny picked up chips. 

“Here comes an Indian!” said Margie suddenly. “It’s one 
of those who was with Colorow the other day.” 

105 


io6 


The Shining Mountains 


Ponto yapped at him and Spy hid under the rocks and 
growled. The Ute was a shrewd-looking fellow with high 
cheek bones and close-set black eyes. 

“What's that tied back of his saddle?" cried Tom. 

“Elk calf, I reckon," said Pa. 

“Poor thing!" Margie was indignant. “It’ll be dizzy with 
its head hanging upside down. Make him let it loose, Pa!" 

But the Ute was already untying the elk. “Me Jokum. 
Swap for shug!" he demanded, and set the hot, panting little 
creature on the ground. 

It was smaller than a tame calf and had only an inch or 
two of tail. Its coat was reddish brown. Though it tried to 
stand, its long legs were wobbly and its front knees buckled. 
The children rushed to help it. 

“Poor little feller," crooned Tom. 

They put their arms around it and stroked its soft ears. 
The baby whimpered, nulling their hands and wrinkling 
his pointed black nose. 

“Shug!" repeated the Indian. 

“Oh, yes, Pa! Let’s swap!" Tom was all enthusiasm. 

“What’s shug?" pulled Margie. 

“Sugar, I reckon," said Pa. “Think we could spare a 
little, Em?" 

“After we hauled it clear from Denver City?" protested 
Ma. “What in creation do we want with an elk critter?" 

“He’d make a jim-dandy pet!" begged Tom. “Look how 
he bunts against me!" 

“We could eat molasses instead of sugar on our cornmeal 
mush," suggested Margie. “I wouldn’t mind a speck. Please 



Trails West 


107 


let’s swap with the Indian, Ma. We’ll take good care of 
the elk!” 

“Seems like with two dogs and a cat—” began Mrs. Craw- 
ford, and abruptly stooped to pat the elk. After all, her 
children wouldn’t have many playfellows away off here in 
the mountains. She went to the sack in the wagon, dipped 
out some sugar, and tied it in a clean cloth. This she gave to 
the Ute. He snatched it and tied it on his saddle. Then he 
whirled, grabbed the calf, and was going to sling it back 
on his horse. 

“Wope! Drop that elk!” Pa ordered. 

Jokum’s black eyes gleamed. He aimed to have the elk 
and the sugar both! Pa picked up a stick of firewood and 
started for him. The Indian took one look at the white 
man’s sturdy six feet and purposeful blue eyes. He let go 
the calf, vaulted onto his pony, and made off. Ponto chased 
him to the edge of the trees and swaggered back. 

“Guess that ’ll learn him!” exclaimed Tom. 

“ ’Twouldn’t have done not to keep a bargain once we 
made it,” Pa said slowly. 

“What’ll we do if he comes while you’re gone?” worried 
Ma. 

“Pshaw, he won’t.” Pa stuck the ax in the chopping block. 
“But I’ll go have a talk with Yarmony.” He strode off to 
the Ute camp. 

“Now I know what an Indian giver is,” observed Margie. 
“Anyhow I’m glad we have the baby elk. What’ll we 
name him?” 

Tom wanted to call him Jokum after the Indian. “Here, 



io8 


The Shining Mountains 


Jokum! Look, Jokum! See* I bet he knows his name already!” 

Spy bounded out of hiding and came wagging her tail. 
She sniffed at the calf curiously and sat down, ears cocked 
at an interested angle. “One more thing for me to look 
after,” her patient dog eyes seemed to say. 

“He’s hungry,” said the practical Margie. “He’s got to 
have milk. Let’s drive Spot over here and make the calf 
divide.” 

It took strenuous efforts to get the rangy cow into camp. 
And then she didn’t like the elk. The rolling whites of her 
eyes were as slick and round as onions. Margie looped a 
rope around her neck and tried to make her stand while 
Tom managed the elk. 

“Nice Spot. Good old Spot,” he soothed. 

“Maaaa!” said her silly little calf standing spraddledegged 
in the weeds. 

“Hold her, will you? How’d you expect me—hey!” 

Spot hooped her tail, jerked the rope loose, and lumbered 
off to see about her offspring. 

“Oh, well, go on then!” said Margie disgusted. She picked 
splinters of hemp out of her palms. “We’d better try 
Peggy.” 

“Yep.” Tom’s face was red and his hair tumbled. Even 
though the elk was a baby, he was hard to manage. 

The mare was gentle enough, but she was too tall for 
Jokum to reach. And when the children tried to boost him, 
the colt got in the way and kicked and squealed and butted. 

“What in geranium we goin’ to do?” puffed Tom. 



Trails West 


109 


“Maybe the elk ’ll drink out of a pan,” said Ma. “Here’s 
a little milk I saved from morning.” 

They offered it to their new pet. 

“Go on, drink!” wheedled the boy. “Don’t be a ninny!” 

The calf braced his legs and blew through his nose. No 
amount of tugging and pushing could persuade him. 

“Here, open your mouth!” Margie dabbled her finger 
coaxingly in the milk. 

Danny squatted beside her like a frog and dipped his own 
fist into the pan, testing its contents with a rosy tongue when 
he thought no one was looking. 

“We’ll have to pour it down his throat,” she decided. 
“You hold him, Tom.” 

The boy got a good grip and pried the small stubborn 
jaws apart. “Now!” 

Spang! 

One upward toss of Jokum’s head spun the tin from 
Margie’s fingers, landing upside down. Right on Danny! 

“Waugh!” bellowed Danny as he sent the surprising hat 
clattering. 

Milk every place! In their eyes, down their necks, all 
over their clothes. Spy scuttled one way and the pup the 
other. Ma gathered the baby into her arms and mopped 
his face on her apron. “There, there now.” 

Margie knelt down in the dust to wipe her own flushed 
face on the hem of her dress. Tom let go the elk and began 
to laugh. He whooped and hollered and rolled on the grass. 

And Jokum was still hungry. 

“There’s always a way,” declared Ma. She hunted up an 



no 


The Shining Mountains 


empty bottle from the wagon, filled it with the remaining 
milk, and cut a short piece of hollow quill from Tom’s owl 
feather to insert in the cork. The end of the quill she 
wrapped with a soft rag. ‘'Here, Jokum,” she said. 

A tantalising drop of milk splashed on the small black 
nose. 

“Say, look at him grab!” cried Tom. “He knows how 
to work that all right!” 

Just then Hute and Uncle Henry came back, Pa also a 
few minutes later. Ma pitched in to getting supper. For 
the rest of the evening everyone was too busy to pay much 
attention to the elk, but Tom hollowed a round nest in the 
pine needles so it could sleep warmly, and covered it with 
his own jacket. 

Next morning at daybreak Pa and Hute set out on their 
trip of exploration. Tom was sound asleep, but Margie 
smelled the smoke from the fire, heard the jingle of Monty’s 
bridle ring, and sat up in time to see the two men swing 
away through the dawn. They’d have to cross the river 
and climb the hill; then they’d just keep heading west, west 
to the Yampa. She was wide awake and cold. She might 
as well get up and dress. 

What a long day that was! Uncle Henry chopped more 
wood, Tom played with Jokum, and Ma got at the mending. 
Seemed as though for once she was glad to see those holes in 
Danny’s stockings. 

Margie fetched her blue bag and took out her sketch book. 
She thought maybe she’d draw a picture of a mountain and 




Trails West 


hi 


send it to Janey Reed in a letter. Oh, bother, she’d forgot! 
Middle Park was beyond the reach of stage coaches and 
mail. She’d draw a little anyway just to keep her hand in. 
For a time she worked frowningly. The lines wouldn’t go 
right. If she only had someone to show her how! Discour- 
aged, she laid aside the sketch book and opened the old 
daguerreotype. The girl in the picture smiled out at her. 
“I wish you were real,” sighed Margie. “What fun we 
could have together. I wonder, oh, I wonder who you are!” 

In the bottom of the bag was the Little Silver Bear. She 
tried again to polish off the scratches. “Good medicine,” 
Running Whirlwind had called it. But Pa had said it didn’t 
amount to shucks. Pa had said something else too— “A 
body makes his own luck most generally accordin’ to how 
he squares up—” 

Bow-wow-wow-wow! Spy roused the camp. Ponto, who 
had been snoring in the sun, scrambled to his feet and rushed 
at a small yellow Indian dog that trotted out of the edge of 
the trees. The strange dog was short-legged, dirty, and cross, 
but he had the distinction of wearing bead earrings. He 
snapped viciously at fat Ponto. 

Behind him came a grinning Indian woman. Her mocca- 
sins slipped through the grass as noiselessly as two mice. 
She was about as tall as Margie and much stockier. A blan¬ 
ket was folded about her like a shawl; a skirt of blue and 
white striped bed ticking reached to her ankles. Her coarse 
black hair hung loose to her shoulders and she was con¬ 
stantly shaking it out of her way. 



112 


The Shining Mountains 


“Me Yarmony’s squaw,” she said with a shy glance at 
Ma. “Me Singing Grass.” 

Ma smiled a welcome. “Singing Grass. What a pretty 
name!” 

“White squaw heap lonesome maybeso.” 

“Yes, me heap lonesome. Glad Singing Grass come. Here, 
sit in the little rocker.” Ma pulled forward the small brown 
chair that had been unpacked from the wagon. 

The Indian woman’s grin widened. She touched the chair 
and when it rocked, laughed like a child. After amusing her- 
self a moment she announced, “Make white squaw moo- 
casins.” 

“Moccasins for me?” 

The Ute nodded vigorously. She had with her a piece of 
soft white buckskin, which she spread flat on the ground and 
motioned for Ma to place one foot on. Tom and Margie 
watched her cut and fit the material. She shaped it with a 
sharp knife and then, folding the two edges toward the top 
of the foot, sewed them up the middle with sinews. 

“You like beads?” 

“Why, yes,” said Ma. 

“Ute squaw no beads.” Singing Grass pointed to her own 
plain toes. “White squaw—” She nodded and set to work. 

Where had those beads come from? Perhaps from the 
box Margie had found in the pine needles—that box which 
Colorow had appropriated. The girl gathered courage to 
ask, “Where’s Colorow?” 

The squaw’s face lost its smile. She sewed stolidly. “No 
here.” 



Trails West 


£i3 

Well, that was something to be thankful for! 

During the next two weeks Singing Grass was a frequent 
visitor. Other squaws came with her to marvel at the stove 
and point and giggle at the rocking chair. Among them was 
a very old Indian woman with white hair and a face criss' 
crossed with wrinkles. She huddled in her shawl at the 
edge of the trees muttering squeakily. 

‘'What does she say?” inquired Ma after her efforts at 
friendliness had failed. 

“She say,” admitted Singing Grass with a show of reluc' 
tance, “she live here heap snows. Thees Utes’ dirt. No like 
whites come.” 

“Tell her,” said Ma, “the country is big enough for 
whites and Indians too.” 

But the very old squaw looked on with eyes that never 
lost their suspicion. Ma found out she had had seven chib 
dren and when Yarmony’s wife asked her where they were, 
she pointed up. 

One day Margie and Tom saw her sneak down to the 
river and throw a basketful of pine tips in a crevice in the 
cliff. Against the rocks leaned a weathered papoose board. 
“Do you s’pose that’s a grave?” whispered Margie. 

Besides making the whole family moccasins, Singing Grass 
showed them how to jerk meat Indian fashion. She cut it 
in strips, placed it on a rack of branches, and left it to dry 
in the smoke and sun. In return Ma gave her biscuit, sugar, 
and a length of blue calico. 

By now Jokum had become an established member of the 
family. Ponto romped with him, while Spy kept a wary eye 



The Shining Mountains 


ill 

upon the two foolish young things. The elk finally learned 
to drink from a pan, though he always stuck his nose to the 
very bottom and emerged blowing and wheeling with milk 
up to his ears. 

The third week passed. No sign of Pa or Hute. Even 
Uncle Henry began to be uneasy. 

“They’re sure to be back this sundown,” Ma would say 
anxiously each evening. “You children climb up on the 
rocks and holler if you see them coming.” 

Tom and Margie went up to the rocks so often that they 
wore a trail through the grass. From the top they could look 
a long distance—clear beyond the Ute camp and across to 
the big ridge. They could watch the Utes going back and 
forth to the hot spring, which Yarmony said was “heap good 
medicine.” The squaws tied the smallest children to the 
horses so they wouldn’t fall off in the river. The water was 
high with melting snow from the range, and the scrubby 
little ponies had to swim hard to get to shore. Ma would 
never think of tying Danny to a horse and turning the crit' 
ter loose in that swift current! 

One evening Margie saw a black speck moving against the 
skyline. “Here they come!” she shouted and flew to the 
river bank. The whole family dropped their work and hus' 
tied after her. Any minute now they’d hear Pa’s long 
“Hooooo—00/” and Monty’s shrill nicker to the horses in 
the meadow. Any minute— But there was no sound except 
the boom of the water through the canyon, the slap slap 
of a willow branch that dragged in the near ripples, the 
thin shivery call of a coyote from the hill. Darkness came. 



Trails West 


111 

“Reckon you saw that coyote,” said Uncle Henry. 

Empty with disappointment they stumbled back to camp. 
Margie couldn’t go to sleep that night for thinking about 
things—that mysterious Yampa country, Pony Wilsons 
warning. Why didn’t Pa and Hute come? 




Chapter Eight 
ON TO THE YAMPA 

Though Pa and Hute were missing, Ute Sam and Bigfoot 
usually managed to be around at mealtime. They spread 
their hands to the Crawford’s fire and smacked their lips 
over “woman’s cookin’.” For a few days they disappeared 
and the family were hopeful of being rid of the nuisances, 
but they turned up again. 

“Like a couple of bad pennies,” Uncle Henry growled. 

They had been to see Grand Lake. Mention of the lake 
made Margie remember Pony Wilson’s tale of the big fight 
the Utes and Arapahoes had had there long ago. And that 
made her think of the two Arapahoe boys, Running Whirh 
wind and Wasani. What had become of them? Had they 
gone back to Denver City? 

Ute Sam was full of big stories. He told how they’d 
caught trout in the lake. “Couldn’t get ’em to bite any kind 
o’ bait so we took Bigfoot’s red bandana and held it right 
over the water and them dinged fish like to jerked it out of 
our hands! They was cur’ous I reckon, and they’d cotch 
their teeth in the cloth and we’d have half a dosen of ’em 
floppin’ at one time.” 

“Huh!” scoffed Tom. But he tried the scheme—prb 
vately—that very afternoon. Ponto and Jokum went with 
him. 

Ma was too busy to miss him. First she made mulligan 
stew, which she preferred to cook in the Dutch oven rather 
116 


On to the Yampa 


111 

than on the stove. Margie helped her dig a hole, build a fire 
in it, and when the ground was well heated, rake out the 
brands and bury the Dutch oven under hot coals and dirt 
where the stew could simmer for hours. Then the two of 
them with Danny went to hunt wild strawberries. 

When supper time came Ma called, “To'om! Tom!” 

Jokum and Ponto bolted out of the brush and romped 
up to her. A small sheepish figure sidled after them. 

Margie eyed him in amazement. “Goodness sake! Where’s 
your shirt?” 

“I—I lost it.” 

“Lost it!” Ma looked a lot like Aunt Sally right then. 

“It caught on a—a snag in the river.” 

“River!” Ma gave him a frightened shake. “Thomas 
Logan Crawford, you didn’t go swimming in that dangerous 
high water!” 

“No’m.” Tom rubbed fiercely at his eyes. “I was tryin’ 
to catch fish the way Ute Sam said. I borrowed Uncle 
Henry’s red bandana and tied it on a pole, but it wouldn’t 
work and I fell down in the mud and got all dirty. Ute 
Sam came along and he asked me why didn’t I wash my shirt 
the way the cowboys do.” 

“Go on!” 

“So I—I did.” 

“And you dropped it in the water?” 

“No’m. Not exactly.” 

“Thomas!” 

The boy gulped and plunged ahead miserably. “I tied the 
shirt to the pole the way Sam told me and held it out in the 



The Shining Mountains 


118 

ripples. He said cowboys always let the current do their 
washing. And it was doing fine till some driftwood came 
down.” 

“Your best blue shirt!” 

Tom looked down and dug a hole with his shoe. “Any" 
how I saved the bandana. Maybe the shirt ’ll lodge some 
place in the canyon where I can get it.” 

“Don’t let me hear of you going into that canyon,” Ma 
said sharply, “what with the water so swift! Better by far 
to lose the shirt. And I guess that’s punishment enough. I 
washed your other shirts today and they’re still damp. You 
can hang one across that log to dry. Margie can lend you 
her sacque.” 

The sacque was a long overblouse made to be worn with 
a skirt. It had pink and white stripes and was amply flared. 
“Aw—” Tom backed away, “I don’t hafta wear that, do I?” 

“Thomas!” 

Shamefacedly he donned it. The peppermint tails flut" 
tered gaily. Margie giggled as she bent to uncover the 
Dutch oven. 

“Go on. Laugh!” He gave her arm a resentful push. 
The stick in her hands slipped, jarred loose the iron cover, 
and an avalanche of dirt poured into the steaming stew. 

A horrified gasp went up from the family. Ma didn’t say 
a word but she was very cross. She marched to the bushes 
with head held high, emptied out the stew for the dogs, 
and came back to beat up a mess of flapjacks. 

It was a poor time for Ute Sam and Bigfoot to show up. 
Unaware of the fate of the mulligan, they rode into camp 



On to the Yampa 


119 


and sat a moment on their horses, sniffing hungrily. Tom, 
who had been ordered to tend the flapjacks, stood by the 
stove, his red face matching the bright stripes of his blouse. 

“Say, sonny,” drawled Sam, “did I ever tell you how the 
cowboys do their cookin'?” 

Tom looked up, his eyes smarting from the smoke. He 
happened to see Tobe settled on a log, tail curled around his 
feet. Abruptly he left the cakes to grow black on the edges 
and lifted the big gray cat in his arms. Fondling it, he slunk 
closer to the visitors. 

“Yes sir,” Ute Sam loosened one foot from the stirrup, 
“I must tell you how them cowboys—Whoa! Wh—whoa!” 
He made a frantic grab at the saddle horn. His horse had 
gone crasy. It reared and bucked and kicked. Margie 
glimpsed a gray furry ball just back of the saddle—a ball 
with round yellow eyes and bristled whiskers. Yeowrr-r-r-r-r! 
sputtered the indignant cat, hanging on with four sets of 
rasor'sharp claws. Ute Sam's saddle blanket was so skimpy 
that the cat's claws hadn't any place to fasten except the 
horse's hide. The mustang thought a swarm of yellow jack' 
ets had settled on his back. With a frenzied squeal he took 
the bit in his teeth and hit for yonder. 

“Whoa!” yelled Bigfoot. “Whoa!” And he gave chase 
on his own horse. 

“What in creation!” Ma turned, too late to observe par' 
ticulars. 

Tom tucked his gleeful face into the pink and white cob 
lar and scraped the burned cakes into the fire. “Seemed as 
if Sam's horse got scared at something.” 



120 


The Shining Mountains 


“Look!” Margie pointed to the flat. “The horse has 
bucked Sam off. Bigfoot’s stopping to see if he’s hurt.” 

“That’s not Bigfoot,” squinted the boy. “He went after 
the horse. That’s—why, that’s Pa! And Hute! Hurrah!” 

The travelers were back safe and sound! Pa brought Ute 
Sam to camp with him to have some supper. Sam’s brindle 
hair was snarly with dirt and bits of grass and he looked 
mighty glum. But that didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter 
when Bigfoot trailed in an hour later with the runaway horse 
and had to have fresh cakes and hot coffee cooked for him. 

“Finest country in the world!” Pa declared every little 
while. “Can’t wait for you folks to see it.” 

“Did you run into Colorow?” Margie asked. 

“Nary an Indian.” 

“Didja see—kerchoo! Didja see the Yampa River?” The 
pink and white sacque had vanished and Tom appeared, a 
trifle mussed, but in man’s attire. 

“Tom Logan,” Ma shook her head at him, “you’ve got 
on a damp shirt. Go in the tent, take it off this instant, and 
go to bed.” 

“Didja, Pa?” The boy retreated as slowly as possible. 

“Ay Jonathan! And I nailed up my claim notice right 
at the Big Bend!” 

“What kept you so long?” Uncle Henry wanted to know. 

“Missed the place we were huntin’ for and came out away 
below—almost to Brown’s Hole. Big country in there that’ll 
be settled some day. But the Yampa’s my choice. Ay Jon- 
athan! Mineral springs—dozens of ’em—no telling how vah 
uable. We found a great big bubbling one.” 



On to the Yampa 


121 


“It shore smelled awful,” Hute put in, “but it was right 
pretty to look at.” 

“Then we waded to the south bank of the river,” Pa 
went on, “and heard something that like to fooled us both. 
Sounded just like a steamboat going chug-achug, chug-achug. 
The stream was too small for navigation and when we looked 
around we saw a spring spouting water ten feet high and 
making that noise. In the edge of it was a pile of shiny 
stones.” He fished one out of his pocket, the siz;e of a small 
potato, and passed it around. “Looks to me like silver.” 

Ute Sam hefted the chunk in his hand. “Never heard 
of findin’ silver that'a'way,” he mumbled. “Still, I dunno.” 

“Plenty of room in the Big Bend,” Pa declared, beaming 
about him. “It’d be a good start for any man to take up 
land there. Why don’t the rest of you boys come down 
and mark off claims next to mine?” 

“Reckon I will,” nodded Uncle Henry. 

Hute frowned. “The more I see of these here mountains 
the more I begin to think Missouri is good enough for me.” 

Ute Sam got to his feet and stretched. “If I was honin’ 
for land I’d take you up, Crawford. But me an’ my pard is 
prospectors an’ we’re plumb cur’ous about them Rabbit Ears. 
Ho'hum! We’ll be hittin’ the hay.” And he and Bigfoot 
slouched off to their blankets. 

The fire burned low. Tobe strolled in, his eyes yellow 
orbs of flame. Still Pa talked on in glowing terms about 
the new country to the west. “That silver interests me,” he 
exclaimed. “Where’d I put it?” 

“Ute Sam had it last,” Margie remembered. 



122 


The Shining Mountains 


“Must’ve dropped it in his pocket without thinking. I'll 
get it from him come mornin’.” 

But in the morning Ute Sam and Bigfoot were gone. 

“Sneaked off mighty quiet,” muttered Hute. “Jim, I bet 
my hat those lousy coyotes have gone to jump your claim!” 

“Fiddlesticks!” grunted Pa. “They don’t want land. What 
they’re after is gold.” 

“Or silver,” said Uncle Henry significantly. 

“But Pa’s already nailed up his claim notice!” broke in 
Tom. 

“This isn’t Missouri,” growled his uncle. “Fellow’s got 
to live on a place to hold it here. Got to build a cabin and 
plow ground. Then he better hit for a land office and make 
a filing. If you take my advice, Jim, you’ll head for the 
Yampa pretty quick.” 

Pa refused to be greatly concerned. Nonetheless, he hur* 
ried preparations for moving on. 

“Seems as though we’ve got more than we had to start 
with,” Ma sighed when they tried to crowd their possessions 
back into the two wagons. “I declare, I don’t know where 
to put everything.” 

When the packing was at last done, Uncle Henry drove 
the freight wagon across the stream. Spy swam after it. 

“All aboard!” Pa climbed onto the seat of the second 
wagon and made ready to follow. Margie grabbed Ponto, 
and Tom held Tobe as the mules plunged into the river and 
the wheels wobbled over boulders. 

Hute, with Spot’s young calf flung across his saddle, drove 
the loose stock into the water. The colt raced back and 



On to the Yampa 


123 


forth along the bank, excited, and afraid to wet its feet, 
but Peggy struck out with the others. By and by, with a 
squeal the colt splashed after her, treading its hoofs franti" 
cally till it reached firm ground again. 

“Wait!” shrilled Tom. “We’ve forgot Jokum!” 

“Sit down!” roared Pa. 

The baby elk had trotted out of the willows and stood on 
the bank looking after the wagons. 

“But we can’t leave him!” 

“Maybe he’ll follow us,” said Margie. “Here, Jokum. 
Come on, Jokum! Look, I believe he’s going to try it!” 

“He’ll drown,” choked Tom. 

“No, he can swim. See!” 

Breathlessly they watched the little brown head which 
was all that was visible above the rapid water. 

“Current’s got him. It’s pullin’ him to the canyon!” 

“No, he’s making it!” cried Margie. “Come on, Jokum. 
Come on. He’s almost safe—he is!” 

The wagon was hardly up the bank before the boy was 
out and running to fling his arms around the dripping hud" 
die on the grass. 

“He’s so tired, Pa, he’ll have to ride.” 

“Shuckins, son, don’t see how—” Pa began. But some" 
how the small orphan was wedged in, and nobody minded 
that he was very wet. 

After a hard climb they topped the ridge. Margie tried 
to imagine that some of those mountains far ahead were shin" 
ing. The country opened into wide sagebrush flats. Beside 
the river longdeafed cottonwoods were a cool inviting green, 



124 


The Shining Mountains 


and in the marshy meadows pink shooting stars and blue 
flags made carpets of glowing color. A band of antelope 
flashed out of view. Jack rabbits skittered to right and left. 

When they stopped at noon by a spring hole Uncle Henry 
found horsetracks in the mud. “Ute Sam and Bigfoot traw 
elin’ right ahead of us! Jim, I don’t like it!” 

Pa was a little bothered, but all he said was, “Shuckins, 
they’d come this way if they were goin’ to the Rabbit Ears. 
You and Hute are bound to hunt for trouble.” 

On the second day the Crawfords turned toward a range 
of timbered mountains on their left. The river had dis' 
appeared some miles back through a rocky wedge of its own 
carving. 

“Got to strike that pass,” said Pa. “I’m satisfied this 
is the Gore Range. If so, I understand a road was cut 
through here nineteen years ago.” 

“Shore, you an’ me saw old choppin’s when we crossed 
before,” Hute nodded, bringing his horse alongside, “but 
now big trees have grown up right in the middle of where 
the road was.” 

“I thought our wagon was the first to come into the Park,” 
said Ma. 

“Sir George Gore had a lot of two'wheeled carts to carry 
his outfit,” Pa explained. “He was an Irish lord who hunted 
for three years through the Rockies just for sport. An old 
scout in Denver City told me about him.” 

Though Gore Pass was not so high as Rollins Pass, it 
was very steep and rocky in places and the men had to hew 
a way through the thick brush and timber. At last the 



On to the Yampa 


125 


wagons reached the valley land on the other side. There 
came a day when Pa rejoiced, "Here we are on the head" 
waters of the Yampa River. Ay Jonathan! A few more 
miles and we’ll be home!” 

Home. How could that word ever mean anything except 
a snug white farmhouse at the end of the lane? The country 
grew wilder the farther they journeyed. If Sir George Gore 
had ever traveled here, the passage of years had blotted out 
his road. Sometimes the bear and elk and even the deer did 
not trouble to run. 

Uncle Henry became more cheerful. "I’ve been watching 
sharp,” he said. "If Ute Sam and Bigfoot had come this 
direction I’d have seen some sign. You were right about 
’em, Jim. And I’m some relieved!” 

Hute Richardson didn’t say much these days. He was 
growing restless. "Reckon you^all could get along without 
me now?” he asked one night. 

They were camped beside a blunt spire of stone that 
pointed into the sky like a giant finger. Pa stood with his 
back to it, looking into the fire. "Sure you won’t change 
your mind and take up a claim?” he urged. 

"Not me, Jim. I’m a sociable critter and I’ve got to live 
where there’s folks.” He hesitated. "Feller offered me a job 
driving a freight team back to Missouri if I get to Denver 
City by the twentydifth.” 

"Hoped you’d feel a call to stay.” 

Big Hute glanced up. He and Pa had been friends from 
boyhood. "If you need me, Jim—” 

"Shuckins!” Pa slapped him on the back. "You go right 



126 


The Shining Mountains 


ahead. Henry and I can make it from here. And when you 
see the folks in Sedalia—” He drew a lock of coarse black 
hair out of his pocket and grinned, “—well, just show ’em 
this Indian scalp.” 

Tom’s eyes bugged out. 

“Shame on you, Jimmy!” scolded Ma. “You know that’s 
the forelock of that buffalo you shot. And thank goodness 
it’s nothing worse!” 

“Just for a joke,” Pa insisted mildly, somewhat subdued. 

Ma shook her head. “Well all write letters home and 
Hute can take them.” 

Margie began a note to Barbara Ellen. Words were hard 
to think of. Hute was going away. Big good-natured Hute. 
How could they ever get along without him? She hadn’t 
felt so lonesome since the wagon train had split up. A salty 
tear splashed on the sheet of paper. She wiped it away with 
a hasty hand and gripping her pencil began to decorate the 
page with drawings. A quick deft stroke or two showed 
Colorow on his horse; the wagon with Pa and all of them 
trying to pry it out of the mud; Jokum; and last of all the 
Finger Rock. 

“Your cheeks and nose look chapped, daughter,” Ma 
observed at bedtime. “Better rub some deer tallow on them.” 

Id the morning Hute took the back trail to the settle¬ 
ments, but the Crawfords pushed on. 

That afternoon Margie and Tom had an experience they 
would long remember. They had run ahead of the wagons 
and before they realized it were out of sight and sound of 
the family. There was a strange commotion in the brush. 



On to the Yampa 


127 


Margie felt Tom's sudden wild grab at her arm. “What— 
what are they?” 

Ten, twenty, thirty, forty hairy gray bodies loped out of 
the brush and across the flat. Long, greatanuscled animals 
with red tongues lolling out over gleaming fangs. For they 
were wolves, big timber wolves. Instinct warned the chib 
dren not to move. Anyhow, they were too frightened to 
run or cry out. 

Like stones they stood, Tom and she, while the pack kept 
swinging past so close they could hear the animals pant. 
On the trail of something, the wolves ran in a wide arc, 
paying no more attention to the children than if they had 
been stumps; and in a moment had vanished in the pines. 

When the bushes had stopped shaking, the boy and girl 
dared to breathe. They scurried for the wagons as fast as 
their trembling legs could take them. After that they stuck 
close to Pa. 

Without Hute their progress was slower. The job of herd" 
ing the stock fell back on Tom. The valley widened, grew 
deeper, too—or else the mountains on either side grew taller. 
Pa hardly knew whether to struggle through the willows 
and tangled grass of the bottom land or force a way over 
the rocks and through the groves of the hills. He tried both, 
and gradually they neared their goal. 

“Couple more days!” he encouraged. Then, “One more 
day!” And at last, “Tonight! We're sure to be there to" 
night! See, yonder against the mountains the river makes a 
big bend to the west. Think of the hay that'll cover these 
meadows some day—acres and acres! Think of the cattle 



128 


The Shining Mountains 


that ’ll grase on these slopes. Giddap, Jack! Giddap, Joe!” 

Pa’s excitement was catching. In spite of all their fore' 
bodings about the Yampa country, the family were so eager 
to see over the next ridge that they didn’t even pause for 
supper. But Danny had no mind to starve. He raised such 
a howl for “gagy” that Pa had to stop long enough to build 
a little fire, and Ma had to mix up some flour, water and 
salt and call it gravy. 

The shadow of the mountain swooped down to cover 
them, and on the hump of the opposite range the sun’s 
rays were red gold. 

“We’ll make it,” Pa kept saying. “Let’s push on!” 

They left the freight wagon and hitched the horses in 
front of the mules. The last half mile Pa drove right down 
the middle of the river. The Big Bend! The mysterious 
place of the Yampa! Scree'ee'eech—scrape—jolt! went the 
wheels over the boulders. Beaver slapped the water with 
their tails and dived out of sight. Kingfishers scolded. The 
teams lurched up the bank and came to a heaving stop. 

“Home!” Pa said huskily. 

Ma gripped her hand over his that held the reins and they 
just sat there in silence, looking. The valley was broad, 
sloping up to gentle hills and shouldered about by tall moun' 
tains. Fingers of meadow land reached back into purple 
gulfs of obscurity. The river, reflecting the glow from the 
sky, was a wide golden road dividing the dusk. Yonder to 
the left myriads of tiny pools nestled in the shadows like 
bright fallen clouds. From the tall grass rose the quacking 
of wild ducks settling for the night. 



On to the Yampa 


129 


“Ours,” Pa said in an awesome voice. “Ours, by the grace 
of God.” 

The long lonesome cry of a kildeer sent a prickle of appre- 
hension through Margie. Pony Wilson’s warning thrummed 
through her memory: “Keep away! Keep away!” Her anx¬ 
ious brown eyes tried to pierce the twilight. What was there 
here in this valley to be afraid of? 




Chapter Nine 
WHERE IS DANNY? 

“Well, here we are at the Big Bend,” exclaimed Tom next 
morning, munching his breakfast with relish, “an' nothin’s 
happened to us yet!” 

The Crawfords were camped on the south side of the 
river. In the sparkle of sunlight the valley certainly didn’t 
look like a place to be afraid of. It was every bit as wide and 
green and inviting as Pa had pictured it. 

“What’s that funny white hill yonder?” Tom wanted to 
know. 

“Spring formation,” Pa told him. “There’s a cave that 
goes away back under the rocks. Down a quarter of a mile 
by the river is that Steamboat spring where Hute and I 
found the silver. No telling how many different springs 
there are. And I don’t doubt they’ll all be valuable some 
day. We’ll look them over soon, but now I mean to get 
settled on my claim.” 

The claim, he explained, was across the Yampa, three- 
quarters of a mile farther west. He and Uncle Henry took 
the teams and hurried back to fetch the freight wagon. 
While they were gone Margie and Tom explored. They 
could not go very far down the flat without getting into 
mud. So they poked through the willows and cottonwoods 
and came to a big dead tree with something in its top that 
was too large for a hawk’s nest. 

“It’s a little platform!” exclaimed Margie. 


130 


Where Is Danny? 


131 

Tom was examining a queer stubby limb. ‘'Geranium, 
sis! Here's a—a—oxbow! It's been sawed in half and the 
ends driven into the tree trunk. To hang meat on maybe. 
D'you s'pose Ute Sam and Bigfoot—” 

“They didn't have oxen,'' said his sister. “Besides these 
things are years old. Look, Tom, there's been a 'dobe house 
here!'' 

Not much of it was visible now, for the rain and snow 
had melted the mud bricks, but the south wall stood per- 
haps four feet high and in it were small rectangular holes. 

“To shoot through, I betcha,'' said Tom. “Musta been 
a fort, and that platform in the tree was a place for a look' 
out. Who d'you reckon—” 

“Maybe Sir George Gore.'' Margie wondered if Pony 
Wilson knew about this old fort, and if it had anything to 
do with the mystery which for her seemed to hang about 
the Yampa. 

As soon as Pa and Uncle Henry came with the freight 
outfit they broke camp, drove the loose stock across the 
river, and forded with the wagons. The redtop grass on the 
north side was as high as the mules' backs. The teams plowed 
through willow clumps and mowed down whole gardens of 
flowers—harebell, heath, and red paintbrush. There were 
three noisy little creeks to cross before Pa reached his claim 
site. The last one he called Soda Creek because the white 
rocks around the springs near it seemed to be crusted with 
soda. 

The mules splashed through a trout hole and came to a 
stop on a wide grassy bench at the foot of a small hill. 



132 


The Shining Mountains 


“Here’s where I figured to build,” Pa said. “High and dry 
above the river, yet plenty sheltered, and handy for—” 
Abruptly he halted. Then his face turned a queer greenish 
white. He jumped over the wheel and took great strides 
to the cottonwood tree where his claim notice had been 
nailed. Only a shred of the paper was left. Near-by were 
the ashes of a campfire, and in the soft dirt were tracks. 
Pa looked at them with eyes that gleamed like blue steel. 

“They’ve beat us! Plumb fooled us!” 

The anxious family gathered around him. Uncle Henry 
dropped the lines and came running to scowl at the tracks. 
“Ute Sam and Bigfoot! The measly skunks! Must’ve took a 
short cut from Rabbit Ears.” 

“And now I bet they’re larrupin’ to the land office to 
make a filing,” cried Margie. “Oh, Pa!” 

“They’ve stole your claim, Jim!” 

“Not yet!” Pa’s voice was like a whiplash. “This land’s 
mine and by thunder—” 

“What you goin’ to do, Pa?” shrilled Tom, dodging out 
of his way. “You goin’ to foller ’em?” 

“Aye! Pm goin’ to beat ’em to the land office!” 

“Jimmy—” Ma clutched at him. 

He went right on dragging his saddle out of the wagon. 
“A little sack of grub, Em. And Tom, you catch up Monty.” 

“Ashes are still warm,” said Uncle Henry. “The scoun¬ 
drels haven’t much start of you. With a good horse—” 

Things happened mighty fast for a while. In no time Pa 
was ready. Before he mounted he cut a piece of paper out 
of his notebook and wrote in large determined letters: “I 



Where Is Danny? 


133 


hereby claim for homestead 160 acres with this tree as cerv 
ter. James Harvey Crawford.” And he tacked it up where 
the other notice had been ripped away. He stuck his pistol 
in his belt, wrung Uncle Henry's hand, and kissed the family 
good'by—all but Tom whom he patted on the shoulder, man 
to man. “Take good care of your ma, son,” he said, and 
was gone. 

They watched him cross the river, pause a moment by 
the Steamboat spring, and hurry on. A dark speck on the 
hill, and then only the trees and the yellow afternoon sun- 
shine. How big and empty the valley seemed without him! 
Margie blinked hard. 

“Might as well unload, I reckon,” muttered Uncle Henry. 

“Yes,” said Ma, though she just stood there and stared at 
the spot where Pa had disappeared, as if she could watch 
him all the long way Outside. 

“Look,” Tom discovered, “Sam and Bigfoot forgot their 
frying pan and coffee pot and a blanket!” 

“Shore must’ve left in a hurry.” Uncle Henry began to 
circle the camp, studying the ground and slowly widening 
his arc. “Ulvhuh!” He stooped behind a bush to pick up 
a couple of empty cartridge shells. “Somebody shot at ’em 
from here.” 

“Shot at them!” gasped Margie. 

Tom hastily looked behind him. “Great geranium! Who 
do you reckon—” 

“Some Ute tryin’ to scare ’em out of the country. The 
Indians never had any use for ’em.” 



134 


The Shining Mountains 


“Then maybe Sam and Bigfoot aren’t aiming to jump our 
claim after all,” said Margie hopefully. 

“Hmp! They won’t give up a good silver prospect that 
easy,” growled her uncle. 

“Do you s’pose that Indian’s still around?” asked Tom, 
when they had gone to tell Ma. 

“I haven’t time to s’pose!” said Ma, tying an apron around 
her with a jerk. “We’ve got to eat and sleep whether or no!” 
And she set everyone to work. 

It took the rest of the afternoon to unload and make camp. 
They didn’t set up the stove, for Ma said she’d as soon cook 
over an open fire till they could get a cabin built. 

Next morning Uncle Henry suggested that they go and 
find the mineral springs. Hunting them was fun. No matter 
if they were all worried they couldn’t stay gloomy with 
the birds singing and the sky so blue and the breeze so 
sweet. The first spring they found was a big one only a 
few yards from camp. Thick red mud coated the stems of 
the rushes that grew around it. The water was lukewarm 
and through it rose chains of bubbles that broke with a 
pfftl at the surface. 

“Tastes pretty good,” remarked Tom, lifting some water 
in his hands to his mouth. “What makes that rusty color on 
everything?” 

“Iron stain,” explained Uncle Henry. “I’ll warrant that 
water’d build good red blood.” 

He and Ma went on toward the river, but Margie and 
Tom lingered to play Follow The Leader. What sport to 
leap from mound to mound, with the earth under their feet 




Uncle Henry had to grab her by the arms and pull 


















Where Is Danny? 


i 37 


as springy as new hay mows! They took turns at trying to 
figure a dry passage among the multitude of little pools and 
miniature reed-grown hills. There were so many tiny 
streams hidden by clumps of rank sedges that they had to 
watch carefully. 

Jokum and Ponto thought they ought to go every place 
the children did. First thing, the pup fell in a spring and 
crawled out whimpering and plastered with bluish-white 
mud. He shook himself and sulked off to roll in the grass. 

Jokum had a better time. He waded around on his long 
legs, sniffed the salty grass and licked a sprig of it. It tasted 
so good that every day from then on he came back and ate 
some. The wild herds of elk and deer liked it too, for their 
trails were everywhere. 

“I haven’t stepped in once,” whooped Tom, landing on a 
particularly shaky knob of earth while half a dosen small 
green frogs jumped out of his way. 

“Neither have I. Ugh!” Margie had miscalculated a 
bunch of greenery for solid footing and had sunk in jelly' 
like mud up to her waist. The water was ice cold! Uncle 
Henry had to grab her by the arms and pull, and she scram' 
bled out, shivering and crestfallen. She was a worse sight 
than Ponto! 

Ma was half-cross, half-laughing. Tom was more inter' 
ested in the spring. “Look at the bubbles!” he cried. “The 
fresh water’s driving off the mud already.” 

“Believe you’ve found the best spring of all, Marge!” 
said her uncle. 'We’ll come and taste it when it clears. 
Now you’d better hustle into something dry.” 



i 3 » 


The Shining Mountains 


“First she's going to take a bath in the big sulphur spring 
by the river,” said Ma decisively. 

“Bathe in a spring?” 

“It's warm and I think it's been hollowed out some. 
Maybe the Indians piled the rocks around it. Come, I'll get 
towels and soap. Tom and Henry can take Danny and go up 
Soda Creek awhile.” 

When Margie looked at the sulphur pool she said, “Why, 
it's boiling! It's bubbling all over like a big tea kettle. I'll 
be scalded!” 

“It's not hot,” assured Ma. “Try it.” 

The girl peeled off her clothes and dabbled her toes ex' 
perimentally in the blue^green water. It’s smelly all right,” 
she observed, wrinkling her nose. To her surprise she soon 
began to find the tang of it rather salty and pleasant. With 
right good will she set to work scrubbing and emerged clean 
and rosyffaced, feeling as fit as a fiddle. 

After lunch, Uncle Henry and Tom went to hunt good 
building timber, and Margie wandered down by the river to 
see if she could glimpse the Steamboat spring on the other 
side. She walked through the bushes, pausing often to listen. 
Pretty soon she heard chug-achug, chug-achug, chug-achug. 
Stepping out on the dry round tops of the boulders, she gased 
curiously at the white rocks opposite. They were hollowed 
and worn as old bones, and out of them opalescent streams 
of water purled into the river. In one place a plume of foam 
shot into the air at regular intervals. “That's the Steamboat 
spring,” she exclaimed aloud. “And that's where the sib 
ver is ” 



Where Is Danny? 


i 39 


She almost wished Pa had never found it. Then Ute Sam 
and Bigfoot wouldn't have come bothering. Where were 
the two scoundrels now? Would Pa get Outside to the land 
office in time to save his homestead? Soberly she started back 
to camp. Once she whirled to peer behind her with a sud" 
den queer feeling that she was being watched. Maybe that 
Indian who had shot at Sam and Bigfoot— 

Ma was stirring the fire under a pot of beans. She greeted 
Margie with frightened eyes. ‘"Where's Danny?" 

“Why, isn't he here? I haven't seen him since noon." 

“I was sure he went with you." 

They looked at each other, faces blanched. 

“Dann—ee! Danny!" Ma hunted furiously in the wagons 
and under them. 

Margie ran to the creek and searched up and down the 
bank, under the bushes and over the logs and even in the 
shallow pools. “He's not here," she panted. “Maybe he's 
fallen in the springs." 

A frantic investigation among the rushes revealed nothing. 
“Maybe in those rocks on the hill. Danny! Come, baby!" 

“He might have tried to follow Tom and Henry." Ma 
wrung her hands. 

“Or he might have gone to sleep under a sagebrush some" 
where," said Margie. 

“All the time since noon—" 

Tom and Uncle Henry returned and joined the search. 
The fire Ma had been tending burned to ashes. Margie 
began with the wagons and looked everywhere again. “Dan" 
ny! Oh, Danny!" 



140 


The Shining Mountains 


Stumbling and splashing along the edge of the big pond 
beyond the sulphur spring, the girl was startled by a sudden 
voice. Not the piping baby lisp her ears were listening for, 
but a man's gruff voice: 

“Wal, thar's no use yellin' any more." 

There was a stumpy old man with a shrubbery of gray 
whiskers, a round button of a nose and snapping blue eyes. 
Pony Wilson! And in his arms fast asleep was Danny. 

Margie couldn't say a word for a minute. She just held 
out her hands for the baby, but the prospector stalked by 
her and on to camp. She found her voice. “Here he is! 
Here he is!" 

Ma came running and caught her youngest to her and 
wiped the corner of her apron across his peaceful dirty face. 
She held him so tight that his eyes came open. 

“Is he all right?" panted Margie. 

“He's all right!" rumbled Uncle Henry. “Thanks to this 
stranger." 

“He ain't any stranger!" shouted Tom. “He’s Pony Wih 
son! Where'd you come from, Pony? How'd you get here? 
Where'd you find Danny?" 

“Hmp!" was all the reply the prospector gave. He'd 
been in water up to his waist and his shoes oozjed with mois' 
ture when he moved. Maybe that's what made him so 
grumpy. He didn't even answer Ma when she asked him 
to stay to supper, but turned to shuffle away. 

It was Danny's howl of alarm that stopped him. “Me 
too!" insisted the child, kicking to get down. “More don- 
key!" 



Where Is Danny? 


141 

“Where's the donkey?" said Margie. 

“Dere!" Danny waved a chubby arm toward the river. 

“Mought as well tell you," growled Pony, scraping his 
feet in the dirt. “I took the baby. I've had him all after¬ 
noon. But he's all right, ain't he?" 

“You took him?" they gasped. 

“Seen him playin' around the sulphur spring, kind of lone- 
some-like, so I toted him across the river to visit Music. 
Knowed you wouldn't let him come if I was to ask you, 
though I never aimed to git you scared." 

“You carried him across the river?" Ma began to get 
frightened all over again. 

“He brunged me pickaback!" 

“I was keerful as could be. Ole Pony knows." The pros¬ 
pector rubbed his nose and went on haltingly, “I had a little 
feller of my own, oncet. Injun trader stole him." 

He thrust his chin into his ragged collar and stumped away 
without even hearing the repeated invitation to supper. 

“Poor Pony," murmured Margie. “Who'd ever have 
thought—" 

“He’s goin' back across the river," frowned Tom. “Won¬ 
der where he lives. He had his nerve tellin’ us to stay away 
from the Yampa and then cornin’ here himself. I'd just 
like to know—" 

Uncle Henry spent the following morning up Soda Creek 
chopping logs. While he was gone Pony came leading Music, 
the burro. Danny gave a joyous whoop and galloped to 
meet him. The old man set the child on the donkey, glanc- 



142 


The Shining Mountains 


ing at Ma uneasily. “Reckoned mebby the little feller ’d 
like to ride around a bit,” he suggested. His manner was 
still gruff and suspicious. He made it plain that he had 
come to please the baby and no one else. 

But Music seemed glad to see people. He lifted his soft 
mus&le and said “Eeediaw! Eeediaw!” and offered his hoof 
to shake hands. Tom and Margie skipped around him and 
petted him and fed him wild pea vines. Jokum thought he 
was being left out, so he stamped off to eat salt grass. Ponto 
chased his tail till he was dizzy and nobody paid any atten- 
tion to him. 

“Say, Pony,” Tom remembered, “why’d you tell us to 
stay away from the Yampa?” 

The old fellow tugged at his shapeless hat. “Didn’t want 
you pesterin’.” 

“We’re not pesterin’!” 

“Them other two was.” 

“You mean Ute Sam and Bigfoot?” asked Margie. “Are 
you the one that shot at ’em?” 

A twinkle appeared in Pony’s eyes. “Jest aimed a shot or 
two above their heads. They shore went adlyin’!” The 
twinkle faded. The leathery face grew glum again. “You 
lookin’ fer gold, mebby?” His words were weighted with 
distrust. 

“No,” said the girl. “If we’d wanted to mine we’d have 
gone to Empire or Central City. We’re just going to live 
here and raise cattle and make a town some day. I—I hope 
we can!” 

“Hmp,” grunted the prospector, “if that’s all you come 



Where Is Danny? 


M 3 


fer—” His horny fingers crumpled and uncrumpled the hem 
of Danny’s dress, slowly, as if they were feeling for some' 
thing back through the years. 

Uncle Henry came in for noon. He had taken a short cut 
over the hill. “There’s a fresh pony track on the point,” 
he said, furrowing his brows. 

“Indian?” Ma reached for Danny. 

“Unshod track, anyway. Someone’s spying on us.” 





Chapter Ten 

THE PROSPECTOR’S SECRET 

“Pony track, huh?” The old prospector straightened. 
His eyes were keen and bright again. The Crawfords 
weren’t hunting gold. They just wanted to live here, and 
he wasn’t one to say they couldn’t have all the land they 
wanted—if land was what they craved. He’d even help ’em. 
Come to think of it, it’d be nice to see another smoke in 
the valley besides his. ‘Til have a look at that track,” he 
said. “Ute scout, likely. Injuns has as much curiosity as 
antelope.” 

He returned an hour or so later to report two sets of 
tracks that led on down the river toward lower country. 
“The Utes ’ll all be driftin’ this direction as it gits toward 
fall. Nothin’ to pester about.” 

Uncle Henry went back to his log'chopping mightily re' 
lieved. Pony disappeared for a time. When he returned 
again he had an ax of his own. 

“Aim ter show you how to make the chips fly,” he de' 
dared sourly. “What you know about cuttin’ cabin timber?” 

From then on he took charge of the house building. “Ain’t 
goin’ ter have no worthless sway'backed shanty in my vab 
ley,” he grumbled. “Ruther pitch in and see it built right.” 

Uncle Henry was glad enough to have help and good' 
naturedly followed the old fellow’s sharp orders. 

Gradually Pony’s grumpiness wore off. Anyone could see 
he liked having people to talk to; and he liked the kind of 


144 


The Prospector's Secret 


145 


gravy Ma made almost as well as Danny did. He brought 
his blankets and slept at the Crawford camp. “I got a cabin 
across the river in them thick spruces on the hill,” he said, 
“but I can’t be trottin’ back and forth all the time.” 

“I don’t see any cabin.” Tom stared through the deepen- 
ing dusk. They had had their supper and were squatted by 
the fire. Ma was putting Danny to bed in the tent, and 
Uncle Henry had gone to make sure the stock in the meadow 
was all right. 

“It’s hid,” Pony told him, puffing contentedly on his pipe. 
“After I found out Thurston was a double-crosser I felt 
easier up thar in the timber by myself.” 

“Who’s Thurston?” asked Tom. 

Pony’s lip curled with contempt. “Injun trader. Crooked 
as a ram’s horn! But we never knowed we’d run onto any¬ 
one like that—me and little Billy.” 

“Who’s B—” Tom began, but stopped at a dig from 
Margie who whispered: 

“That’s his little boy, of course.” 

“Nope,” Pony held his pipe in his hand, forgetting to 
draw on it, “we never knowed. Reckon I hadn’t ought to 
have brought a baby only three years old into the moun¬ 
tains, but what else could I do? Cinthy—” He stared into 
the fire so long that his listeners feared he would forget to 
go on, “—Cinthy, she was took off with fever in Denver 
City and that left just him and me. And then there was the 
map the wounded Frenchman had made fer me.” 

Tom and Margie waited with breathless attention. At 
last, Pony might divulge the real mystery of the Yampa. 



146 


The Shining Mountains 


‘'It would have been a sight better if the map had been put 
on a big piece of paper, but when I met up with the French' 
man I didn’t have nothin’ except my little black notebook. 
He had to draw it the best he could in that. Wal, Billy and 
me we follered the directions and got deeper and deeper into 
the mountains. ’Twarn’t so easy to figger out them lines 
the Frenchman had made when he was so turrible weak, and 
it took us most all summer to find the Yampy Valley. When 
we did finally hit the right place we seen there was another 
white man here. His name was Thurston and he had a stock 
of goods to swap with the Injuns fer pelts. He had fixed up 
an old ’dobe fort that somebody had built five or six years 
before and was livin’ in that.” 

‘‘Oh, I know—across the river!” Margie broke in, and 
then bit her lip for fear the interruption might put an end 
to Pony’s talkativeness. He merely nodded, and went on: 

‘‘Thurston he wanted us to share his shelter, and we done 
it fer a time. I never mentioned about the map, but I don’t 
doubt he seen me study in’ over it. He begun watchin’ me 
like a hawk, pretendin’ all the time he was my friend. I 
soon see’d he was a rascal. The Injuns never liked him 
neither because he tried to outsmart ’em. They sort of took 
to me, though, account of Billy, I guess. When I’d go 
huntin’ I’d leave him at the Ute camp and the squaws ’d 
take the best kind of care of him. Me and the little feller 
quit the ’dobe and put up our tent on the hill, and you betcha 
I slit that map out of my notebook and hid it. I thought 
the trader’d pull his freight pretty soon; then after he went 
I could go and easy find the gold!” 



The Prospector’s Secret 


147 


Gold! Tom and Margie exchanged significant glances. 

“But he kept a^stayin’ and I did too. It was girtin' along 
late in the fall. The Utes begun to pack their lodges and 
drift fer lower country. I knowed it was time fer us to be 
goin’ too. And then it happened.” 

In high suspense his audience leaned forward. “What 
happened?” 

“The last I can remember the sun was shinin' and I was 
by the tent playin' with Billy. And when I come to, it was 
snowin’ to beat all and I was jouncin’ along on a pole litter 
behind a Ute pony. And little Billy was gone!” 

“Gone!” 

Pony’s fingers squeezed his cold pipe. “Gone,” he whiV 
pered. 

The teakettle gurgled merrily. In the tent Ma hummed a 
slumber song to Danny. 

“Yarmony told me it had been three sleeps since he found 
me knocked cold. Thurston had took Billy and lit out in a 
hurry. Half a dosen Ute braves had follered him. Seems 
he'd tricked 'em out of some furs. In three-four days they 
come back and said Thurston had joined up with a 'Rapahoe 
war party in Middle Park. Yarmony's braves had hard work 
to escape with their hair, but they did. 

“It begun to snow hard and the Injuns started for White 
River, takin' me along and nursin’ me the best they knew. 
Time I was able to travel the snow was three foot deep in 
the mountains and more cornin’. Couldn’t git into the 
Yampy till spring and when the breakup did come I hit fer 
the east slope and the 'Rapahoes, drat ’em! Even give ’em 



148 


The Shining Mountains 


my blanket and the saddle off my horse to tell me where 
Thurston and the boy went and they sent me on a wild goose 
chase. Don’t never trust no ’Rapahoe! 

“Twelve years I’ve hunted fer Billy. Been everywhere 
adookin’. And I alius end up in the Yampy. Got a feelin’ 
the little feller ’ll turn up here some day.” 

“Twelve years,” murmured Margie, her voice husky with 
sympathy. “He wouldn’t be little now, Pony. He’d be two 
years older than I am.” 

For some moments they sat in uncomfortable silence, then 
Tom switched the subject. “Did you find the gold?” 

Pony roused. “Not yet. But I’m hot on the trail of it! 
I’ll find it afore snow flies. If I hadn’t lost that map—” 

“Oh, Pony!” 

“Yep. Thurston took it.” 

“I thought you’d hid it!” exclaimed Margie. 

“And so I had. But I reckon Thurston was too smart fer 
me.” 

“Couldn’t you remember what it looked like?” 

“Seemed so. Though there must be something I fergot. 
The Frenchman was turrible sick, and his drawing was con' 
fuseddike at the end. Injuns had killed his pardners and 
wounded him bad, but he got away. When I happened on 
his camp in the foothills he was that weak he couldn’t git 
himself a drink of water. I took care of him, and before he 
cashed in, he give me a little buckskin wallet chuck full o* 
nuggets, and made me a map to show where he’d found ’em. 

“Looky here!” He extracted a yellowish pebble the sise 
of his thumbnail from a small bag that was worn smooth 



The Prospector’s Secret 


149 


and black from much handling. As he did so something 
dropped to the ground. 

Tom pounced upon it. “What’s this?” 

“That thar’s the claw of a grizzly bear I killed one time,” 
Pony told him, tucking it back in the wallet. 

“He must have been a whopper!” 

Pony nodded. His gase was on the gold. “This here’s 
one of the very nuggets the Frenchman give me. Purty, 
ain’t it? I had to use the rest fer grubstakes. The French' 
man said they just shoveled ’em up like that!” 

“Say, let’s go find that place!” Tom was ready to start 
right then. 

“Shore, we’ll find it! And when we do you young uns 
’ll have a share.” Pony put away the nugget and shoved 
the buckskin bag back into his pocket. “Dunno why Thur' 
ston never took my wallet while he was stealin’ the map.” 

“What was the map like, near as you can remember?” 
persisted the boy. 

The prospector smoothed a place in the dirt and drew 
several lines with a stick. “Here’s the river. And this here’s 
a tributary cornin’ in from the northeast. And this is a 
mountain.” 

“What’s that little circle?” asked the girl. 

“That’s where the Frenchman and his pardners had their 
camp the night before they come onto the gold. I found 
the two cottonwood forks and the alder pole that they’d 
swung their canvas over for a tent; and I found where one 
of ’em had cleaned his rifle and gone off and forgot his 
hickory gun rod. Just like the Frenchman said. 



The Shining Mountains 


£50 

“You see they was restin’ fer noon by a stream that 
emptied into the Yampy, when one of the men shoveled up 
some gravel and got a long string of gold in his pan. Course 
they begun to work right up the creek. They found out 
the gold come from a small dry gully a short distance above, 
and they follered this up till they seen a rim of rock crossing 
the gulch. Right thar they dug a hole to bed rock and got 
the richest kind of nugget gravel. Only half a day’s travel 
from camp.” 

“Show me how to pan. Pony,” cried Tom. “I’ll pan 
everywhere!” 

“I’ll help too,” promised Margie. “Beginning tomorrow 
we’ll look in every gulch.” 

But Pony shook his head. “The gold ’ll wait. First off 
we’ve got to git a roof over your heads.” 

So they all worked hard at building the cabin. “We’ll 
face her south,” said Pony. He knew just how to notch 
the logs at each end to make the corners fit together, and 
he knew the best'sised timbers to lay slantwise from the 
ridgepole. Uncle Henry finished the roof with slabs of 
spruce bark. “They’ll do awhile,” said Pony, “but you’ll 
have to put dirt on thar afore winter.” He showed Tom 
and Margie how to daub the cracks on the outside with 
sticky white clay from the springs. He supervised the setting 
up of the stove and the wiring of the pipe. Then he con' 
sidered his job done. 

“Isn’t it nice to have a real house!” Margie exclaimed. 
The floor was dirt, the windows had no glass in them, and 
the door was only a hole with a deerskin hung over it at 




The Prospector’s Secret 


£ 5 £ 

night; but the family felt snug as could be inside four walls 
once more. Uncle Henry thought details could wait and 
shifted his attention to building a harness shed and corral. 
So Ma and Margie turned carpenter and manufactured an 
odddooking table of split poles, with one side nailed to the 
wall. Tom made some shelves and a bench. 

“We ought to have a housewarming,” said Margie. “Oh, 
Ma, let’s! We can put on a tablecloth and invite Pony to 
dinner. I’ll pick a bouquet and we can open the trunk and 
wear our best dresses! My buff muslin and your blue poplin 
with the darling polonaise!” She paused, eyes shining. 

Ma looked at her in some bewilderment. “There wouldn’t 
be a speck of use—” 

“Just for fun! Play as if all the neighbors are coming!” 

Ma gased out over the sagebrush. A long way to neigh' 
bors. Nobody knew how much she missed them. 

“Can we, Ma?” 

“Why yes, I guess so. I’ll make raisin pudding for dinner.” 

“Whoopee!” shouted Tom. 

They all sat down on the floor to unpack the old tin trunk. 
It was as much fun as opening a Christmas package. Out 
came a few precious books. Out came the buff muslin and 
the blue poplin. 

“Your pa, I declare!” sniffed Ma. “Look where he’s 
packed his bullet mold and reloading tools—right in with my 
bonnet!” 

“Here’s the mustache cup,” said Tom, “and the bottles 
of extract. They can go on my shelves.” He unstoppered 
each one to sniff the fragrance. “What’s this?” 



152 


The Shining Mountains 


“Careful!” warned Ma. “That’s the strong ammonia your 
pa brought.” 

Tom took a cautious whiff. He blinked. He sneezed. 
Hastily he punched back the stopper. “Whew! Like to 
knocked me over.” 

“Set it on the shelf with the rest of the bottles,” said Ma, 
“where it won’t get broken.” 

Margie found the almanac and hung it on a nail. “Now 
if we only had some pictures—oh, I know!” She dived into 
her sketch bag for the old daguerreotype, propping it in 
front of the bottles. The girl in the frame still smiled her 
sweetest. “Wish we had those tintypes somebody stole in 
Denver City. Anyhow here’s the Little Silver Bear.” 

“Me bear!” demanded Danny, reaching. 

“Oh, no, precious. You’d lose it.” 

“Me bear!” Danny began to cry. He’d fallen in a patch 
of nettles this morning and his arms and legs were splotched 
with blisters. He had a right to be cross! 

Margie had intended to put the bear on the shelf just for 
ornament but she tucked it back in the bag. “Look, there’s 
Pony. Run and tell him we’re going to have a party!” 

The baby toddled off. With flying fingers Margie undid 
the apron she wore and slipped the buff muslin over her 
head. Fastening a button here and there she dashed out to 
surprise Pony. “You’re invited to the party!” she cried gaily. 

“Ginger and bear’s grease!” The prospector backed away. 
He looked scared. Furtively his gaze slid from the girl in 
her wrinkled finery to the cabin door through which he 
could see the edge of the blue and white tablecloth. “Foo" 



The Prospector's Secret 


iS3 


faraws and womens fixin’ s,” he muttered and scuttled for 
the willows. 

“What made him act like that, Ma?” cried the disap' 
pointed Margie. 

“He’s lived alone so long. We’ll have to make allowance.” 

The four of them had to eat dinner by themselves, for 
Uncle Henry had put a couple of biscuit in his pocket and 
gone hunting. Ma smiled her gallant best from the little 
brown chair at the head of the table, but Pa’s place was 
empty. It was time he was back from Outside. Why didn’t 
he come? 

After dinner the fine dresses were silently folded back in 
the trunk and the tablecloth was put away. Margie was 
wondering how she could spend the long lonesome after' 
noon, when came Pony shuffling along the trail with Music 
at his heels. He looked ashamed and tugged at his hat 
apologetically. “Mebby you’d like if I showed you the 
Frenchman’s camp,” he offered. 

They all went with him, even Ma, Danny, and the pets. 
He took them to the very spot by the river where he had 
found the hickory gun rod and the cottonwood forks. Margie 
tried to seem interested, but her anxious thoughts kept go' 
ing back to Pa, Ute Sam, Bigfoot, and the long, long miles 
from Outside to here. When Ma said it was time to go 
home and get supper, she was more than ready. 

They saw Uncle Henry coming up from below and waited 
for him. He had shot three big gray birds. 

“Sage chickens,” said Pony. “One of ’em’s an old rooster.” 

“What’s the matter with Jokum?” exclaimed Margie. 



154 


The Shining Mountains 


"He keeps pointing his ears up the valley and sniffing.” 

"The dogs smell somepin’ too,” observed Tom. 

"Mebby a bear,” said Pony and did not hurry his plod" 
ding pace. 

"Maybe it's Pa!” 

"I betcha!” 

The children raced past the sulphur spring and the iron 
spring. "Pa!” they shouted. "Here we are!” Up the trail 
to the little flat they panted. Only the cabin and the quiet 
willows and the basking hill. 

“Pa—” First to reach the door, Margie nalted with an 
exclamation of dismay. "Everybody come quick! Some" 
one’s been in the house and it wasn’t Pa!” 




Chapter Eleven 
TOM PLAYS A JOKE 

“Great geranium!” Tom slid to a stop beside Margie. 
His red hair stuck up like the hackles on Spy’s neck. “Some" 
body’s dumped everything out of the trunk! Right in the 
middle of the floor!’’ 

Ma arrived, flushed and anxious. She pushed past the 
children. “What in creation?’’ 

“Indians, I’ll warrant!’’ growled Uncle Henry. 

Ma looked to see if the money was gone from the hiding 
place in the back pocket of the trunk lid, and drew a relieved 
breath when she found it was still there. She stooped to 
whisk through the disordered pile of clothing and keep" 
sakes. “Thank goodness, they didn’t steal Jimmy’s nice 
shirt!” 

“Or my buff muslin,” said Margie snatching up the be" 
loved dress and brushing off the dust. 

“I can’t miss anything from the trunk,” frowned Ma. 
“And they didn’t steal blankets.” 

“Nor grub—far as I can see,” Tom reported. 

“Ammunition’s all here in the corner,” said Uncle Henry. 
“Seems like Indians would have helped themselves to that.” 

“What could they have been after?” pulled Ma. 

Pony had not come in the house. He had been snooping 
around the bushes as busily as the dogs, reading sign. He 
called the Crawfords outside. “Same unshod pony tracks I 
seen hereabouts afore. Thought I trailed ’em out of the 
155 


The Shining Mountains 


156 

valley, but they must ’ve circled back to fool us. Here’s 
where the horses was tied to this limber branch, and I reckon 
the owners jumped on ’em and skeedaddled when they heard 
us cornin’.” His whiskers stood out like tufts of thistles, and 
his blue eyes crackled with indignation. “Fool me, huh? 
Come a'sneakin’ and a'snawpin’ around my valley, will they? 
Ginger and bear’s grease! I’ll show ’em! I’ll ketch ’em and 
salt their hides!” 

He set off on the fresh trail, bent half double to see the 
tracks in the dimming light. Music patiently followed. 
Uncle Henry and Tom hurried up on the hill to take a look 
over the country. Margie and Ma repacked the tin trunk 
for the second time that day. What had the prowlers ex¬ 
pected to find there? Who were they? Would they come 
back? “I wish Pa was here,” thought the girl, troubled. 
He’d been gone for days and days. Weeks. Seemed as if 
he’d had time to go clear to Missouri and back. What was 
keeping him? 

Pony didn’t show up that night. Tom and Uncle Henry 
came in after dusk. 

“There’s a lot of Indians on the mesa above Soda Creek,” 
announced the boy. “We saw ’em puttin’ up their lodges.” 

“Forty tepees anyway,” corroborated Uncle Henry. 
“Likely part of the same band of Utes that were camped 
at Hot Sulphur. Must have been some of them got in the 
cabin.” 

“I hope Colorow stayed in Middle Park,” murmured 
Margie fervently. 



Tom Plays a Joke 


157 

Next morning the Crawfords expected Indian visitors 
right away, so Ma made an extra lot of biscuit. She had 
on her old scrub'day dress, and her hair was pinned into a 
tight determined knot. “We’ve a sight of work to do to 
get ready for Sunday!” she said. “There’s baking and wash" 
ing and ironing.” 

“Washing!” Margie looked her surprise. “But Monday’s 
wash day. And Tuesday’s ironing day! This is only Sat" 
urday.” 

Ma was busy sorting clothes. “Tom, you fill the boiler. 
Your Uncle Henry’s made a fire outside to heat the water. 
Margie, you may rip off the comfort tops.” 

“We just washed ’em when we were in Hot Sulphur,” 
protested the girl. 

“No matter. I don’t doubt they need it again.” 

Ma was worried. This was a sure sign. And not on 
account of Indians or prowlers either. It was Pa she was 
anxious about. Margie wished Ma could sit down and fold 
her hands and worry. The family would have a heap easier 
time. Ma always had to pitch into the hardest work she 
could think of and the rest of them had to pitch in with her. 

Margie sat down to clip the knots in the comforters. 
Through the door she watched for Indians. Uncle Henry 
brought an armload of wood for the stove but Ma told him 
to put it on the fire outside. 

“The oven’s just right for baking,” she said. “While the 
water heats I’ll mix up a cake.” 

“Cake!” Tom was in such haste to empty the last bucket 
of water into the boiler that he sloshed most of it on himself. 



The Shining Mountains 


1 58 

Margie began to clip in earnest. ‘Til be through in a 
shake and I’ll grease the tins!” 

The cake was the one bright prospect of the day. The 
Crawfords hadn’t had cake since the coal oil had spilled 
on the sugar. They’d had to throw away so much sugar 
that Ma had been precious sparing of it ever since. 

“I’ll add the vanilla when it’s time,” said Tom, who con' 
sidered everything upon his shelves with a proprietary air. 

“Danny help too!” The baby scooped dirt off the floor 
with Ma’s best spoon and sifted it on Ponto, who was in 
everybody’s way. Tobe dosed by the stove, half an amber 
eye on the pup. 

“There’ll be plenty for everyone to do.” Ma added a 
pinch of this and a handful of that to the mixture in the 
bowl. “Shoo, Jokum! Can’t somebody get this elk out of 
here!” 

“What’s he got in his mouth?” cried Margie. 

“The almanac! He’s eating it!” Tom made a grab. 

“Catch him! Don’t let him out!” 

It would have been better if they hadn’t blocked the door, 
for Jokum had a mind to play. Around the small room he 
cavorted, doing wholesale damage to Ma's neat housekeep' 
ing. Ponto crawled behind the woodbox while Tobe took 
refuge on top of the table. The elk shook the almanac and 
dared anyone to try to get it. He ducked and dodged. He 
was as slippery as a fish. His hair was short and his tail was 
short, and he didn’t stay still long enough for anybody to 
get hold of his ears. When the booklet was finally rescued 
it was all torn and slobbery. Jokum didn’t care! The print 



Tom Plays a Joke 


159 


had had a nice flavor. He clattered off to the meadow, shak' 
ing his mischievous head and making an exaggerated busi' 
ness of chewing a scrap of paper. 

“Scat!" scolded Ma. “Cats on the table! Such goings on! 
Scat!" 

Tobe shot from the cabin, a ball of outraged fur and whis' 
kers. 

“Mercy to goodness, I’ll be thankful when we have a door 
we can shut!" Ma emphasised her words with jerky dis¬ 
gusted stirrings of the cake. 

“Fix it today," promised Uncle Henry, looking in just 
then. “By the way, here comes your company." 

Margie took a quick survey from the window. She recog' 
nised Two Feathers, one of the braves who had eaten trout 
with the Crawfords at Hot Sulphur Springs. The Indian 
Jokum was with him, and a couple of other braves. Those 
last two—where had she seen them before? A little yellow 
fusS'tailed colt ran among the ponies. It didn’t seem to be' 
long for every time it came near Two Feathers’ mare the 
horse laid back her ears. 

Ma handed Margie the spoon and picked up Danny. “Go 
on with the cake," she directed. 

The table was near the door, and the girl could watch 
the Indians while she stirred. Two Feathers seemed to be 
the leader. He wore a gorgeous red flannel shirt, a pair of 
soiled and torn pantaloons, and a white man’s hat orna' 
mented by a band of calico. The hat and the shirt pro' 
claimed his superiority. The other bucks were bareheaded 
and naked to the waist. 



i6o 


The Shining Mountains 


“How!” greeted Uncle Henry. 

“How!” They slid off their ponies and crowded around 
the door. “Beescuit! Beescuit!” 

Ma distributed her biscuit, which rapidly disappeared. 

The visitors saw the white crystals of sugar that crusted 
the measuring cup. “Shug!” they loudly insisted. 

Of a sudden Margie recollected where she had seen those 
other two Indians. They had been with Colorow at that 
memorable first meeting. She was sure of it! If Uncle Henry 
hadn’t stood right there, tall and sturdy, she might have 
been a little bit afraid. 

“Shug!” 

They reached for the cup. Ma snatched it up and held it 
behind her, bound not to give a drop of the precious sweet' 
ening to any begging Utes. 

“Pour the batter into the pan now, daughter,” she said by 
way of diversion. 

The Utes watched sharply while Margie held the bowl 
in the crook of one elbow and prepared to empty it. 

“Wait!” cried Tom, who had been standing by the table 
for the last ten minutes popping the cork in and out of the 
vanilla bottle. He measured a brown drop into the dough. 
The Indians in the doorway caught the sweet tantalising 
fragrance. 

“Utes smell um,” suggested Two Feathers, grabbing for 
the bottle. 

Tom clung to his property. “Shall I, Ma?” 

Mrs. Crawford nodded. Anything to make the bother' 
some guests forget about the sugar! 




He thrust the bottle under Two Feathers y nose 

















Tom Plays a Joke 


163 

The boy went the rounds, and the Indians sniffed and 
snuffed with loud pleasure. Their eyes grew as big and 
glittery as Tobe’s when he rolled in the catnip back in 
Missouri. 

“Let ’em try the lemon too,” whispered Margie, “and 
the rose.” She had a hard time; to keep from laughing, the 
Utes acted so funny. They screwed their eyes shut, wrin- 
kled their big brown noses, grunted, pushed each other. 

Tom was plenty willing to pass the other extracts. That 
innocent look in his eyes should have warned Ma. 

“Smell um more!” insisted the fascinated Utes. 

“Weevil—” the boy produced a fourth bottle that he had 
kept hidden under his arm— “I might let you smell this.” 

Too late Ma saw what he was up to. Before she could 
collar him he thrust the bottle under Two Feathers 1 nose 
and suddenly withdrew the cork. The full strength of Pa’s 
ammonia struck the astonished fellow’s nose. He staggered 
back, coughing and strangling. His head hit the door frame 
and his hat with the calico band rolled in the dirt. He sput' 
tered and wheeled. He doubled against the wall. His hands 
clawed at his throat and nostrils. His eyes streamed tears. 
He sneered and gulped and gasped. 

“Haw!” shouted Tom. 

Even Uncle Henry had to chuckle. 

The other Indians were startled and pressed around their 
comrade to see if he was really hurt. They talked in short 
suspicious grunts. The harder Tom laughed, the glummer 
they grew. They didn’t like whites to make fun of Indians. 
As soon as Two Feathers could get his breath he snatched 



The Shining Mountains 


164 

up his hat, dashed the tears from his cheeks, and waved the 
braves to their ponies. 

“No fool um Ute!” he choked, climbing upon his horse 
and giving it a wrathful kick in the ribs. 

“Oh, son, why did you?” cried Ma. 

“Aw, I just meant to have a little joke,” said Tom mv 
repentantly, weighing the ammonia bottle in his hands and 
gazing at it with eyes that still enjoyed the commotion it had 
caused. “They forgot the sugar, didn’t they?” 

“Two Feathers was mad as a hornet.” Margie’s brows 
puckered. “And I wouldn’t trust that fellow Jokum. And 
you know something else? Those other two were friends of 
Colorow’s!” 

“Colorow’s!” Tom’s satisfaction dissolved. He looked 
mighty uncomfortable. “Honest, I didn’t mean to make ’em 
mad.” 

Ma considered a moment. “Son, maybe you’d better run 
after Two Feathers and give him some sugar.” 

The boy hung his head. “Aw Ma, I couldn’t catch up 
with him. He’s on horseback!” 

“Reckon there’s no need,” said Uncle Henry. “No use 
to make that brave think he’s too important. When he 
comes again we’ll give him sugar and coffee too. That’ll 
square things.” 

“I don’t know—” hesitated Ma. 

“Want me to put the bench outdoors to set the tub on?” 
offered Tom. “Hadn’t we better start washin’?” He dragged 
at the bench, but before he could get it to the door there 
came a loud hail from the direction of the springs. 



Tom Plays a Joke 


165 

“What now, for pity sakes?” exclaimed Ma. 

They all rushed out to see. Up the trail moved a strange 
procession: first a half'grown Indian lad, limping badly; 
then Pony Wilson, leading a buckskin mare that had a very 
lame foot; then the faithful flop'eared Music. Pony had his 
gun in hand and when the boy slowed, he poked him in the 
ribs with the barrel. 

“Got one of ’em!” he yelled. “T’other slipped away but I 
reckon this here varmint can tell you why for he busted into 
your trunk. Git along thar!” 

The proud set of those young shoulders, the lean grimness 
of that face— 

“Running Whirlwind!” cried the amazed Margie. “Why, 
for mercy sake!” 

At sound of his name the boy stiffened. He didn’t look 
at the Crawfords but stared out beyond at the hill. 

“Was it you busted into our trunk?” blurted Tom. 

“Shore it was.” Pony wagged his head. “Same tracks. 
What you know about him?” 

“We met him in Middle Park,” Ma explained. 

“He’s ’Rapahoe and I had to ride like sixty to get Pa so 
Colorow wouldn’t scalp him,” added Tom incoherently. 

“ ’Rapahoe!” Pony snorted. “I wouldn’t trust a ’Rapahoe 
as fur as from me to you. What’s he doin’ in Ute country?” 

“An’ why’d he dump things out o’ our trunk, I’d like to 
know?” said Tom. 

The Indian boy hunched on the ground, clasping his 
injured leg. His only answer was a scornful curl of the lip 
that could not quite hide a twinge of pain. 



i66 


The Shining Mountains 


‘‘Whatever am I thinking of!” Ma bestirred herself. 
“That poor boy hurt and all of us just standing around!” 
In no time she had his moccasin off and was rolling up the 
buckskin trouser to disclose an ankle, swollen and puffy and 
beginning to turn purple. 

“If he’s an Injun I’m a carcajou!” snorted Pony. “Look 
at the whitness of his skin under his pants leg.” 

“Me Arapahoe!” stated the boy pridefully. “But my 
father is Clee Morgan, the white trader.” 

“Hmp! Half Injun is worse ’n all Injun! I wouldn’t go 
fussin’ with him, ma’am. Likely he ain’t as bad off as he 
makes out. I’ll wager he can move spry enough when ole 
Pony Wilson gives him an invite to vamoose!” 

“Look! There’s Wasani hidin’ behind that sarvice bush,” 
cried Tom. 

“Come out o’ thar!” ordered the mountain man, throwing 
his rifle to his shoulder and sighting along it. “I’ve got the 
drop on you. Put down that gun!” 

Seeing he had ventured too close in his anxiety for his 
friend, Wasani reluctantly lowered his weapon and trudged 
over to stand beside Running Whirlwind. His sullen black 
eyes darted from one to another of the group. 

“Gimme that buffaler gun!” grunted Pony. 

Wasani clutched the gun and backed away. 

“Let him be,” said Uncle Henry. “He won’t bother.” 

“Margie, run and get hot water and some clean cloths,” 
directed Ma. 

The girl dashed into the cabin. She was just in time to 
snatch the cake out of the oven—a little brown, but not 



Tom Plays a Joke 


167 


quite burned. When she returned with the teakettle and 
bandages, Ma was saying: 

41 —a pretty bad sprain. He’ll have to stay right here till 
his leg’s better.” 

44 Anyway he couldn’t travel on such a lame horse,” put 
in Tom. 

Pony turned so red Margie was afraid he might explode. 
“Ginger and bear’s grease! ’Rapahoes ain’t safe, I tell you. 
Lemme run the two of ’em clean out o’ the country!” 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” said Ma flatly, wringing 
out hot cloths and laying them against the swelling. 

Pony glared down his nose. He kicked the chopping block 
with one stubby boot. “You’ll be wishin’ you’d took my 
advice. If the Utes finds these ’Rapahoes here—wal, when 
you git into trouble you needn’t holler fer help ’cause I won’t 
be nowhere in hearin’. I’m a'goin’ to Hahn’s Peak to 
prospect!” 




Chapter Twelve 

MA WASHES EVERYTHING 

Ma paid scant attention to Pony’s grumpy departure. She 
knelt in the grass and did a thorough job of bandaging. The 
Indian boy relaxed under the gentleness of her fingers. A 
queer expression softened his stern young face. 

Wasani had gone to fetch his horse, a blase'faced black 
which had been hidden in the willows, and now leading it 
up beside Running Whirlwind, he jabbered anxiously in Ara" 
pahoe. It was plain that Wasani wanted to get away from 
this place and he thought the two of them could ride 
his horse back to the shelter of the hills and trees. Uncle 
Henry favored that idea. He was for packing the boys off 
at once. ‘They can soon cross to North Park and very 
like find some of their own tribe,” he argued. “If they stay 
here they’ll be in danger from the Utes and so will we.” 

Uncle Henry was too much like Pa to have a thought for 
himself. Margie knew he was mindful only of Ma and the 
family and the trust Pa had put upon him. The Ute camp 
was less than half a mile away, barely out of sight above the 
hill. From it came the faint odor of burning meat and the 
occasional snarl of fighting dogs. This was Ute country. 
Arapahoes had no business to be here. Arapahoes were born 
enemies of Utes. Between the tribes was nothing but blood 
and warfare. 

Ma split the bandage and tied it. “There!” she said to 
Running Whirlwind. “You must stay quiet.” 

168 


Ma Washes Everything 


169 


“Now see here, Em—” frowned Uncle Henry. 

“A week or two!” Ma got up and switched her skirts 
for all the world like Aunt Sally. 

“Won’t do, Em. I tell you, he’s Arapahoe.” 

“I don’t care if he’s Hottentot. He’s only a boy not much 
older than my Tom. And here he stays till that ankle’s well!” 

Wasn’t that just like Ma! She had the habit of taking 
care of people who were sick or in trouble. Back in Missouri 
she’d helped Grandpa and Grandma raise seven orphans and 
it looked now as if she was ready to begin raising these two 
Indians. She didn’t even seem to remember that they were 
the very ones who had sneaked into the cabin last night and 
turned the trunk upside down. 

But Uncle Henry did and he demanded an explanation. 
They wouldn’t say a word. Wouldn’t even tell why they 
were prowling around Ute country. Uncle Henry had small 
use for anyone who couldn’t answer a straight question. 
He went back to his sawing and hammering. He was making 
a door. “It’s my notion,” he growled, “we’d better’ve let 
Pony have his way with ’em.” 

Running Whirlwind made an effort to get up, went gray 
with the pain. The white woman was right. It would be 
many a day before he could bear weight on that bad ankle. 

Tom sprang to help him. After all, when a fellow was 
hurt—“Will the Utes scalp us all if they find you here?” 
he asked, lending a sturdy shoulder for the Indian boy to 
lean on. 

Running Whirlwind’s somber gase sought Margie. 
“Where Little Bear?” 



170 


The Shining Mountains 


“Little Bear—oh, yes! Danny cried for it and I had to put 
it out of sight, but it’s right in the cabin in my blue bag.” 

“Good. Utes no find Arapahoes.” He straightened his 
shoulders. 

Wasani nodded. “Little Bear good medicine.” 

Ma spread a blanket in the shed behind the harness trap- 
pings and there the injured lad took up his quarters. He 
could see anyone who might happen by, yet not be seen. 
Wasani left his gun with his comrade. Running Whirl' 
wind’s own had been lost in his fall from the horse. Wasani 
then hid the two ponies in the thick willows where there 
was plenty of grass, and made a poultice of moss and mud 
for the buckskin mare’s lame leg. 

“I didn’t remember you had a buckskin horse,” said Tom. 

“Ute pony.” Wasani knew very little English, but he 
could make lively talk with his hands. A spark of enjoyment 
kindled in his eyes as he told how he and Running Whirl' 
wind had sneaked into the enemy camp at Hot Sulphur that 
night of the storm when “Utes heap sleep.” How the two 
of them had found ropes> saddles and a blanket apiece, had 
slipped off to the river bank where the horses graced, and 
had taken the first two they could catch. They had stam' 
peded the others to prevent pursuit. 

“Buckskin heap good running pony,” he concluded, and 
after hiding the Indian saddles he returned to squat beside 
Running Whirlwind. 

Ma went back to the business of washing. “Tom, more 
firewood!” 



Ma Washes Everything 


111 

“I don’t think Indians ever wash,” sighed Tom. “It’d be 
kind of nice to be an Indian.” 

“Margie, take the stick and punch those clothes.” 

“Yes’m.” 

The girl divided her attention between the mesa trail and 
the harness shed. More Utes were sure to come begging 
biscuit any time. There were some squaws now! What if 
they should go poking into the shed or notice the dogs 
sniffing around? But they didn’t even stop at the cabin. 
Holding their shawls about them they scurried on to the 
springs to scoop red and yellow clay into willow baskets 
lined with pitch. 

Singing Grass was the only one who paused. Slowly she 
padded toward the house. Her broad brown face was shad" 
owed with uneasiness. She told Ma, “Two Feathers heap 
sick. Maybeso die. White man’s smelhwater heap bad!” 
She showed with her hands how his squaws were making 
him a sweat house. The medicine man, she said, was trying 
to drive out the evil spirit that had hold of him. The clay 
was to paint the faces of some of the braves who would hold 
a ceremony so “sick Injun heap get well.” She hastened to 
join the other squaws. 

“I don’t see how one smell of ammonia could make any" 
body sick,” fussed Ma. 

“It couldn’t.” Uncle Henry threw down his hammer and 
stalked up to the Ute camp. He came back snorting. “The 
rascal’s just putting on. Nothing wrong with him, though 
he’s lying on the ground groaning and making a great tO"do. 
Claims the whites knocked him over. I told him a cup of 



172 


The Shining Mountains 


sugar would cure him and he’d better quit yowling like a 
papoose and come to the cabin to get it. I don’t think Yar' 
mony’s paying him much attention, but some of the others 
are. Colorow for one.” 

So Colorow was in the Yampa Valley! Tom wished 
mightily he’d never thought of that ammonia. Margie 
wished Pa was home. If Colorow and Two Feathers and 
some of those mean Utes got together— 

The day grew hot as the washing continued. The Ara- 
pahoes stayed quietly in the shed. Nothing happened. After 
noon Wasani went to hunt Running Whirlwind’s gun and 
to get a deer. The lazy clouds were like dabs of whipped 
egg white in the deep blue bowl of the sky. A humming 
bird zinged past the corner of the cabin on invisible wings. 
A bumblebee wallowed noisily in a clump of wild asters 
under the wash bench. 

What was keeping Pa? He’d been so sure he could beat 
Sam and Bigfoot to the land office. But had he? Whoever 
made the first filing would have right to this land. That 
was the law. Maybe the Crawfords would have to move 
on somewhere else. Pony said the country got drier and 
flatter the farther west one went. He said too, there wasn’t 
any valley anywhere as fine as this. Margie looked at the 
cabin snuggled there under the hill. It was their house. 
They’d built it. Their fingerprints were in the clay daubing. 
Who’d ever have thought they could feel so at home in this 
Yampa Valley? 

The last tubful of clothes was being rinsed, and the bushes 
on the flat were abloom with petticoats, aprons, stockings 



Ma Washes Everything 


i 73 


and comfort tops when Uncle Henry announced, "The 
door's finished. "Who's going to help me hang it?" 

"Me!" cried Tom. 

"And me!" Margie was glad enough to stop wringing 
and squeezing for a minute. 

Even Ma had to come and help hold the pine panel while 
Uncle Henry nailed heavy harness leather to the house logs 
for hinges. 

"There!" He wiped his hands on his trousers. "That'll 
keep the critters out soon as I make a fastening." 

Spy's ears pricked to attention. She marched to the edge 
of the creek. Must be some more Utes, thought Margie, 
too tired to care much. Then from up the valley came a 
long halloo, deep and penetrating and like no other halloo 
that ever was. It broke through the dull drowsiness of the 
afternoon and set the echoes ringing, "Hoo'oo'oo— 00!” 

"Pa! It's Pa, sure ’nuff!" 

She dashed for the creek, jumped from stone to stone, 
cleared the willows, took a sagebrush at one leap regardless 
of ripping her skirts, and flung herself joyously at a dear 
familiar figure on horseback. 

"Oh, Pa!" Lifting herself in one stirrup she threw her 
arms around his neck. Her heart was singing such a glad 
song that it came up in her throat and almost choked her. 

He kissed her and boosted her up behind him on Monty. 
"Everyone all right?" 

"We thought you'd never come! Oh, did you save the 
claim?" 

Pa laughed. It was good to hear him laugh. "You betcha 



174 


The Shining Mountains 


boots!” he said. “But I had to go clean to Denver City to 
get the Inspector.” 

“Inspector?” The name had a chilling sound. 

A shambling strawberry roan now caught up with Monty. 
Riding him was a plump pompous little man with clipped 
yellow mustache and pale blue eyes. 

“Higginbee, this is my daughter Margie,” said Pa. 

“How'de'do.” The dignitary raised his yellow eyebrows 
and then clamped them together in an impressive frown. 

Afterward Margie learned this was merely a habit of his, 
but now conscious of her flying hair, her undignified posi" 
tion astride the horse and a torn bit of trimming that looped 
from her petticoat, she flushed with embarrassment. “Wish 
I could warn Ma,” she thought. 

But there was not the slightest chance. The horses were 
already splashing across the creek, and there was Tom, 
chagrined that Margie had beaten him, but bound to get 
in the first word about the cabin. 

“We built her, Pa!” he shouted. “Lookit!” 

“Ay Jonathan!” 

And here came Ma running. “Jimmy! Oh, Jimmy!” 

Pa forgot the Inspector and everything else as he swung 
off Monty and caught his wife in his arms. 

“Jim, you old horsethief!” boomed Uncle Henry, barging 
up with Danny on his shoulder. 

“Didja beat Ute Sam and Bigfoot?” yelled Tom to make 
himself heard above the dogs that were barking and jump- 
ing about. “Didja, Pa?” 

“Yessireebobtail! I made a short cut and got ahead of the 



Ma Washes Everything 


i75 


rascals. And I took a piece of the metal from the Steam¬ 
boat spring to show an expert, and he said it wasn’t silver 
at all. Just a coating of some other minerals deposited on 
sticks and stones by the water. I told our two friends when 
they came straggling in and they felt mighty foolish. The 
silver was all they ever wanted.” 

“You filed the claim?” cried Ma. 

“The best I could without a survey. It’s fixed so nobody 
can take it away from us now, unless the Government de¬ 
cides it wants it.” 

“The Government!” 

“Because of the mineral springs,” said Pa, looking sud¬ 
denly weary. “Em, this is Mr. Higginbee, the inspector 
who’s come to report on things.” 

Ma saw the stranger for the first time. Her hands, red 
from being in the hot water, flew to her hair, then tugged 
at her sleeves. “How—how do you do?” 

“How-de-do.” The Inspector removed himself joint by 
joint from his horse. He smoothed his rumpled black vest, 
felt of his sunburned nose. 

Mustering a smile, Ma tried to sound hospitable. “You 
must be tired and hungry. Come right up to the cabin.” 
She turned to lead the way. 

“Pa, the Gov’ment wouldn’t take our homestead, would 
it?” Tom tried to match his stride to his father’s. 

“We found the springs,” argued Margie, clinging to him 
on the other side. “At least nobody knew about ’em but 
Pony Wilson and the Indians.” 

“The Government has to look into such things,” said Pa. 



176 


The Shining Mountains 


“Springs like these ’ll be valuable some day, and they need 
to be taken proper care of. We can do that, ay Jonathan! 
And I don’t make any doubt but we can keep them.” 

“You’ve found us washing,” Ma apologised to the In' 
spector. “I don’t usually wash on Saturday, but I was anx' 
ious to have things clean before Mr. Crawford came, and to' 
morrow being Sunday—” 

“Madam,” said the representative of the Government, 
rubbing his cramped muscles, “this is Sunday.” 

“Sunday!” echoed Ma faintly. 

“Sunday!” gasped Margie and Tom. 

“Lost track of a day somewhere, I reckon,” muttered 
Uncle Henry. “Sure as I’m born, I thought this was Sat' 
urday!” 

“I never in my life!” Ma was flustered to pieces. It was 
her pride that the first day in the week was always care' 
fully observed no matter if they were away off in the 
mountains. Saturdays they baked and scrubbed; Sundays 
they dressed in their clean best, listened to chapters from 
the family Bible, and sang hymns to the windy accompani' 
ment of Tom’s Jew’s harp. After that the family were 
allowed to go walking and to hunt snail shells and gather 
flowers—but never, never to go fishing! 

“And we’ve washed everything in the house and made 
a door and even baked a cake!” said Margie in a shocked 
tone, feeling that they were mortally disgraced. 

Pa began to chuckle. Uncle Henry threw back his head 
and roared. Tom rolled on the ground and made cackling 
sounds. Margie looked at Ma, Ma looked at Margie, and 



Ma Washes Everything 


177 


before they knew it they were laughing too. Inspector Hig' 
ginbee was the only one who didn’t crack a grin. He was 
trying to blow his scorched nose without losing any more 
skin, and the effort made him grunt. 

Pa sobered. “We haven’t had any dinner, Em. Could you 
fix us a little something while I unsaddle?” 

“I’ll set out a snack right away!” 

Nobody had time to think about Running Whirlwind 
hidden in the shed. Pa threw the saddles on the ground and 
got the tin wash pan and some soap for his guest. 

“Do the best you can by the Inspector,” he whispered 
to the family. “Whether we get to keep this homestead 
depends on him.” 

Such scurrying around! “It’s lucky we have the sage 
chicken,” said Ma. “We’ll fry some of that. Put on the 
tablecloth, daughter, and Tom, you run and get the milk 
jar out of the cold spring.” 

In record time she called the two men to eat. 

“You’ll find my wife knows how to cook,” declared Pa 
proudly. 

Inspector Higginbee jabbed his fork into the meat and 
sliced off a thin piece. A peculiar expression came over his 
face as he tasted it. Pushing it to one side of his plate, he 
took a gulp of coffee and reached for a biscuit. 

Pa looked queer too when he tried the meat, but he 
attacked it valiantly. 

“What’s the matter?” faltered Ma. “Isn’t it all right?” 

“It’s a mite bitter,” Pa was reluctant to confess, “and a 
mite tough. Must have been an old sage rooster.” 



i 7 8 


The Shining Mountains 


Ma turned abruptly to the stove, a tired quiver on her 
lips. 

“But the gravy's fine," Pa hastened to add. “Have an- 
other spoonful of gravy, Inspector." 

The silence grew uncomfortable till Pa remembered, “I've 
got a surprise! One of you fetch the bundle that's tied on 
my saddle." He took it from Tom, carefully undid the cord, 
and removed the canvas wrapping. Something red and 
white, something with a blue square in one corner— 

“Oh! Oh!" cried Margie. “A flag! A great big one!" 
She seized hold of one end to help shake out the folds. 

“Isn't that a dandy?" said Pa pridefully. 

“Geranium!" jubilated Tom. “Thirteen stripes and thir' 
ty-seven stars!" 

“It'll look pretty good flying over our little cabin," ex' 
claimed Pa, “won't it, Em?" 

“ 'Deed it will, Jimmy." Ma brushed a quick hand across 
her eyes. Then she felt the fine bunting appreciatively. 
“Where—?" 

“Hute Richardson got hold of it some place and sent it to 
Hot Sulphur by a man who claims he's goin' to settle there. 
Reckon Hute felt sort of bad to leave us. He knew I’d be 
ridin’ out after mail and provisions. I met up with the man 
and he was glad enough to be rid of the bundle." 

“I’ll cut a flag pole this very afternoon," promised Uncle 
Henry. 

They hated to have to fold the flag and put it away on 
the shelf, but there were a million things to be done before 
night. The Inspector rested a while; then he and Pa went 



Ma Washes Everything 


179 


off to see the nearby springs. Ma set to work at once to 
baste the comfort tops back on the cotton. 

“With an extra bed to make we’ll need all our cover to- 
night. Under the circumstances I hope the Lord ’ll forgive 
me for sewing on Sunday.” 

Margie and Tom emptied the tubs and gathered in the 
clothes. The sun sank into the west. Ma carried her work 
to the door where she could see better. 

“Here they come back,” announced Tom. 

“Mercy on us!” Ma basted for dear life. “Daughter, you 
run and show them the iron spring you found. Keep them 
away from here a minute longer till I can finish this.” 

The girl hurried to meet the two men, Jokum capering at 
her heels. Pa had paused and was looking across the soft 
green rush-grown pyramids. His shoulders sloped wearily. 
Margie knew why when she heard the Inspector’s crisp 
businesslike voice: 

“ . . . feel it my duty to recommend that the Govern¬ 
ment reserves these springs.” 









Chapter Thirteen 
GOOD MEDICINE 

Margie stood stunned. * Lose the springs? Lose their 
homestead here in this Yampa Valley? Stumbling forward, 
she tugged at Pa. He put an arm around her and was 
silent. The sunset clouds were a great gold goosequill stuck 
in the purple inkpot of the hills. The big ponds among the 
rushes were bright with the color of the sky. A muskrat 
left a furrow of ripples as he swam. Jacksnipe dabbled in 
the shallows. 

Pa stood there bareheaded, the little hill and the cabin 
behind him, and all the wide dusky beauty of the Yampa 
in front of him. He had come clear across the plains from 
Missouri to find just this. Maybe some place there were 
Shining Mountains. To Pa, the lush valley and the staunch 
friendly hills were enough. 

“Oh, Pa—” 

Patting her shoulder, he tried to sound hopeful. “Maybe 
Mr. Higginbee ’ll change his mind come morning. No need 
to worry your Ma and the rest of them tonight.” 

Ma would have known right off there was something 
wrong if she hadn’t been so busy. Wasani had brought in 
a deer, which Running Whirlwind was helping him skin 
at the edge of the willows. Pa was surprised to see the 
Arapahoe boys. He soon knew most that had happened 
that day and the day before. The emptied trunk was noth¬ 
ing to worry about, he said. Indians all had a bump of 
180 


Good Medicine 


181 

curiosity. He examined Running Whirlwind’s ankle and 
agreed with Ma that the boys should stay till it was healed. 

“But we’ll have to keep ’em hid,” Tom declared. “The 
Utes always scalp ’Rapahoes, and they might scalp us too.” 

“Tut! We’ll do no hiding,” said Pa firmly. “Yarmony 
must be told about the boys. He’s fair-minded and’ll see 
they come to no harm.” 

“Colorow’s here in the valley,” Margie told him. “I 
don’t think Yarmony could make him mind, and he can be 
mean, Pa.” 

“And Two Feathers told him about the ammonia.” Tom 
had been hoping nobody would remember the ammonia and 
here he’d blurted it himself. Now the whole story had to 
come out. Pa didn’t say much, but the Inspector asked a lot 
of questions and fiddled with his top vest button. In day¬ 
light he was an important official, but at night he was only 
a plump, little, bald-headed man away off in an unheard-of 
place called Yampa Valley. 

Somewhere across the sagebrush an owl was hunting mice 
— wh-who — wh-whoo. And over by the cave a family of 
coyote pups raised an eerie chorus to the moon— yee-ee- 
eceeec—yip yip yip yip! 

The Inspector cleared his throat. “You think there’s dan¬ 
ger from the Indians, Crawford?” 

Pa’s blue eyes studied him briefly. “No! Supper about 
ready, Em? I’ll fetch those boys.” 

Supper was eaten outdoors around a campfire. The table 
inside was too small to accommodate nine! The Arapahoe 
boys stayed in the shadows apart from the others, and no 



182 


The Shining Mountains 


one could get a word out of them. Margie washed dishes 
while Ma made beds. Uncle Henry sat by the fire making 
a pulley for the flagpole which he had cut and peeled and 
fixed ready to set up in the morning. The Inspector hunched 
opposite him. 

Margie finished the dishes and carried the water a few 
yards away to empty. A moment she stood, well out of the 
circle of light, to look up at the mountains. She had a feeh 
ing that they stretched close protective arms into the dark" 
ness. Yet they couldn't keep the Inspector from taking away 
Pa's claim. Anxiety sharpened her senses, made the very 
sagebrush that caught at her skirts seem precious. 

Down there in the blacker shadow rushed the river, and 
mingled with it, she imagined she could hear the rumbling 
voices of the springs—the chug-chug of the steamboat, the 
noisy boil of the big sulphur spring, and the tinkling ripple 
of the dozens of small pools hidden in the rushes. She had a 
sudden fancy that if she went and knelt by one of them and 
listened to the soft prick of the bubbles as they reached the 
surface she could understand their speech. The warm iron 
spring was a few yards yonder and she knew the way so 
well she could travel it even in the night without fear of 
splashing into holes. 

Yielding to impulse, she moved forward. 

At the edge of the rushes a faint sound halted her—like 
a boot scraping on gravel. She tried to muffle her pounding 
pulses. Someone was standing there ahead! She could just 
make him out. An Indian, sure! Intending to steal quietly 
to the cabin and tell Pa, she backed a step. 



Good Medicine 


183 


Wham / The dish pan hit a bush, and a voice came out 
of the blackness: 

“Daughter?” 

“Yes, Pa!” 

She went and stood beside him. A long moment they 
looked down into the inky blur of the cottonwoods, their 
thoughts locked together. 

“I understand the Government’s attitude,” muttered Pa, 
“but I believe they’d be glad enough to let us go ahead here 
if they only knew how we felt. Ay Jonathan! I’m willing 
to give everything to the building of this country; I’ll fight 
for it and I’ll do all in my power to lay foundations for a 
town that the future ’ll be proud of. But—” His hands 
dropped to his sides and he finished hopelessly, “Higginbee’s 
a hard man to talk to.” 

This time it was the girl who comforted, “Maybe when 
he sleeps over it, Pa—” 

Margie spent a chilly night in spite of the hot rocks tucked 
at her feet. Ma had given the Inspector the big comforter 
from their bed. While she tossed and twisted, she could 
hear him snoring to the stars outside. Tom and the Ara' 
pahoe boys and the men had spread their blankets by the 
fire. Ponto scratched at his own scrap of cover, couldn’t fix 
it to suit him, whined, and nosed under the quilt beside 
Margie. She let him stay, for he was like a warm round ball. 

It seemed to her she had just got her eyes screwed shut 
when the shrill whinny of a horse woke her up again. Dawn 
had come. She could hear the crack of willows and the 



184 


The Shining Mountains 


clump of hoofs. Something was the matter with that horse. 
It kept whinnying and lunging back and forth. Sharp colt' 
ish squeals added to the din. Now the dogs from the Indian 
camp lent their racket. Spy rushed from camp with a bark 
that sent Ponto scrambling from his nest. The pup had 
dragged the cover half off Margie and she roused reluctantly. 

Then came a sound that brought her upright, wide awake. 
It was a savage yell, followed instantly by Pa’s booming, 
“Hey, you!” 

She and Ma reached the window at the same moment. 
Out from the willows shot a longdegged yellow colt, and 
behind it limped Running Whirlwind’s buckskin mare. 
After them rode an Indian whose red shirttails flapped about 
his bare brown legs. Two Feathers! Plain enough what had 
happened! The colt that for several weeks had been an 
orphan in the Ute band of ponies, had discovered its mother 
when the Ute herd had gone to the creek to drink. Its 
squeals had been sufficient to attract anyone. Two Feathers 
had come to see what the fuss was about and of course had 
recognised the mare as one of the horses that had been 
stolen from the Hot Sulphur camp. 

Catching the quilt about her shoulders, Margie rushed 
to the door just in time to see Pa in undershirt and trousers 
knock the gun from Running Whirlwind’s hands. At the 
same time Uncle Henry thrust out an arm to collar Wasani. 

“Here, what’s all this?” shouted Pa. 

Two Feathers slid from his horse and confronted the 
group, black eyes snapping. “Hah!” he cried. “ ’Rapahoes 
no good! Steal ponies.” 




After them rode an Indian 






































Good Medicine 


187 


“That true?" Pa turned to the boys. 

“Colorow take ours so we take theirs," shrugged Running 
Whirlwind. 

“ ’Rapahoes no good. Me catch um!" 

“This boy hurt," Pa explained. “Must stay here till can 
travel. Big Jim make talk with Chief Yarmony." 

Two Feathers grabbed for Running Whirlwind’s gun 
that still lay on the ground a few yards away, but Pa 
stepped in his way. “Wope! Get on back to your tepee." 

The Indian’s eyes glittered. Squatting on his heels he 
scratched in the earth with one long finger. “Utes’ dirt!" 
he grunted. “ ’Rapahoes no good! Whites heap no good! 
One sleep—go!" 

Pa was not to be badgered. He took a threatening step 
toward the Indian and ordered, “Clear out!" 

The Ute flung onto his horse and departed, driving the 
buckskin and the colt ahead of him. On his way through 
the willows he added Wasani’s blase-faced black to his find. 
When he had splashed across the creek, two cocoondike 
bundles which had been motionless beside the cold ashes of 
the fire, stirred to life. Tom rolled out of the smaller one. 
“Is he gone?" 

Inspector Higginbee poked his head out of the other. His 
eyes peered over the rim of the comforter like two pale blue 
suns that were swiftly shoved above the horizon by a length 
of red flannel underwear. “Will he—will he come back?" 

“You bet he’ll come back!" said Uncle Henry grimly. 
“With reinforcements. Jim, we better contrive to send 
these Arapahoes packing." 



i88 


The Shining Mountains 


“Yes, we go.” Running Whirlwind picked up his gun. 
He would pay no attention to that swollen ankle. He would 
walk straight and sure as he had always done. 

“They’ve got your horses!” said Tom. 

“We get horses!” Running Whirlwind forced a small 
grin. Once before he had boasted so, and had made good 
that boast, but now uncertainty darkened his face. The 
minute he bore his weight on the bad leg it crumpled like a 
blade of grass. He had to sit down a minute and breathe fast. 

Pa ran his fingers through his rumpled hair and took a 
deep lungful of the crisp morning air. “Easy, lad. No use 
to holler before we’re hurt. I’ll go talk to Yarmony. Every- 
thing ’ll be all right.” 

The sun had reached the valley now. From the medley of 
sounds that floated down from the little mesa, the Ute camp 
was fully roused. Pa struck off through the brush, but in¬ 
side fifteen minutes returned, stamping the dew from his 
boots and shaking his head. 

“Ay Jonathan! You can’t hurry an Indian. Yarmony 
was in his lodge not ready to make talk. I left word for him 
to come here soon as he could.” 

The milking was done and breakfast was over before any 
Utes appeared. A bunch of them came riding down from 
the little mesa. Their faces were daubed grotesquely with 
red and yellow and they all had guns. 

“Where Little Bear?” Wasani put the sudden question 
to Margie, lurking distrust in his eyes. 

“The sign on my moccasins—that is enough!” said Run¬ 
ning Whirlwind sharply. 



Good Medicine 


189 

Pa gave a quick uncertain glance at the boys’ guns. 

“Arapahoes no shoot.” Running Whirlwind leaned his 
weapon against the cabin and folded his arms proudly. 
Wasani thought his friend had lost his senses. Rut with grim 
loyalty he too put down his gun, folded his arms, and made 
his face impassive. 

Ma, holding Danny tight, stepped beside Pa. 

“There’s Colorow!” whispered Margie. 

“And Two Feathers!” Tom wanted to follow the In- 
spector who had dived inside the cabin, but determination 
not to show yellow made him stay where he was. 

Two Feathers was the leader. Colorow merely looked on. 
The young Ute had hideous red claw marks of clay on his 
cheeks and a yellow circle painted on his forehead. He leaped 
off his pony, stamped up to Pa, and again demanded: 

“Utes catch ’Rapahoes!” 

“Where Yarmony?” countered Pa. “Big Jim powwow 
with Yarmony.” 

“Here he comes now!” cried Margie. 

The one-eyed chief rode slowly over the crest of the hill 
and drew rein several yards distant. Bright stripes of beads 
adorned his buckskin shirt and strips of otter fur gleamed 
richly in his braids. Pa explained patiently about the Ara¬ 
pahoe boys. The old Ute’s broad face remained as expres¬ 
sionless as wood. He spoke at last: 

“Me so high—” He measured with his hand. “ ’Rapa¬ 
hoes kill father, kill mother, kill heap Utes.” He dropped 
his chin onto his breast and nothing could move him from 
his silence. 



The Shining Mountains 


190 

Quick to seise the advantage, Two Feathers strutted for' 
ward. Once more he scratched in the black loam with his 
bony finger. “Utes’ dirt! Sun here (pointing obliquely to 
the east to fix a time perhaps an hour distant). Whites go!" 

Pa looked him in the eye. “No! Whites stay!" 

Two Feathers whipped his horse about and shouted some' 
thing to his companions. They galloped off. Only Yarmony 
was left, humped on his pony. 

“Big Jim take squaw—go Denber (Denver) city," he 
advised, and withdrew to the edge of the cottonwoods. 

“Where’s my horse?" Inspector Higginbee burst from 
the cabin. 

Nobody paid any attention to him. 

“There’s Em and the children," Uncle Henry reminded 
Pa. “Those redskins are twenty to one, Jim." 

“Is there goin’ to be a fight?" Tom cried. 

Pa’s gaze sought the tree on which he had nailed his 
homestead notice. “I’m not the kind to run," he muttered. 

In this crisis it was Ma who stood staunchly by him. “The 
Utes are just aiming to frighten us,’’ she declared, though 
her cheeks were pale. “We’ll face them out. Let me try 
some biscuits and sugar." 

“Where’s my horse?" bellowed the Inspector, dragging 
his saddle off the saw log and tripping over the cinches. 

“Yonder it goes," snapped Uncle Henry. “Those pesky 
redskins are drivin’ off all our horses. They’re gettin’ ugly, 
Jim. And here they come again." 

“Margie—’’ Ma flew into the cabin, “—this pan. Dip it 
full of sugar. Give it to Two Feathers." 



Good Medicine 


121 

The girl dashed out with the pan in time to see the Ute 
rascal swoop toward the Inspector with a yell of glee, snatch 
his hat and clap it on top of his own calico'banded head 
piece. The little man stood petrified. The only thing about 
him that could move was his eyebrows, and they worked up 
and down at a great rate. Two Feathers curvetted back, his 
eye glittering on the Inspector's red tie. 

“Here!” Margie panted. “Sugar for you! See, sugar!” 

One moment she thought he was going to accept it; then 
his fist shot out. PlankJ it hit the pan. The sugar rained 
in a white shower upon the ground. Margie sprang away 
and fell over a long pine pole at the edge of the woodpile. 
She sat up unhurt, but thoroughly frightened. When an 
Indian wouldn't take sugar—! 

There was tense silence. Pa was standing there at his wits’ 
end. Ma was clinging to Danny. Everywhere were half' 
naked braves with paint smeared on their faces. What was 
going to happen? 

The girl clutched the pole, her fingernails digging ner' 
vously into the soft peeled surface. Suddenly she remem' 
bered something. The pole was for the flag. The flag! She 
scrambled into the house and out again, shaking the creases 
from the Stars and Stripes as she ran. 

“Pa!” 

He snatched at her idea. “The shovel, Tom! That new 
rope—” 

He had a hole dug by the time Uncle Henry had the 
halyards on the homemade pulley. The Utes, as curious 
as could be, watched while the contraption was set up. Two 



192 


The Shining Mountains 


Feathers, finding that he was no longer the center of atten¬ 
tion pulled in his horse and watched also. When the pole 
was solid, Margie threaded the rope through the holes in 
the flag’s muslin binding. At a tug from Tom the flag began 
to ascend. 

The Indians muttered among themselves. Slowly the 
flag crept up the pole, a breeze catching at its folds and 
billowing it lazily. Pa removed his hat and so did Uncle 
Henry. The eyes of the Arapahoes lifted from the faces 
of their enemies to the gracious furls of bunting. Even 
Inspector Higginbee tore his gaze from the savages. A 
grasshopper crackled through the awed stillness. A hawk, 
circling overhead craned its neck and screamed. Pa began 
to talk: 

White man Utes’ brother! Flag—” he groped for words 
they would understand— “good medicine! Protect—” 

“Pull her up, Tom,’’ whispered Uncle Henry. 

“She’s stuck,” muttered the boy. 

“Rope’s kinked a little. Here, let me at it.” 

But the halyards refused to work. Strenuous efforts only 
made things worse. The Stars and Stripes stood at half-mast 
and would go neither up nor down. The peeled pole was 
slick as grease. Even Tom could not climb it. 

It was then that Yarmony got off his horse and stepped 
forward with great dignity. “Injun fix um!” He summoned 
his nephew, Pawinta. The young Ute cooned up the slick 
pine, removed the knots and kinks, and sent the flag to the 
top, spreading in the wind. The white people cheered and 
even the Indians, having helped in the raising, acted pleased. 



Good Medicine 


193 


All but Two Feathers and Colorow, who drew off to them' 
selves. 

“Sing!” cried Pa, and his deep bass led off: 

“My country, ’tis of thee," 

Tom's boyish falsetto soared, 

“Sweet land of liberty," 

Voices quavered at first from stress of excitement, but 
grew steady as eyes were fixed on the red, white, and blue. 
“I love thy rocks and rills 
Thy woods and templed hills —” 

They sang as they had never sung before. The Indians, 
impressed by this ceremony, listened solemnly. Yarmony 
seemed fascinated by the symbol that floated above him. He 
stood shading his one eye against the sun and nodding 
slowly. When the strains of the anthem faded away, he 
turned to Pa with the gravity befitting a great chieftain. 

“Good medicine!” he grunted. “Big Jim, Yarmony’s 
white brother.” 

He spoke a brief word or two to his followers, some of 
whom went to drive the Crawford horses back to pasture. 

“We can stay!” whooped Tom, dancing a jig. “Every' 
thing’s hunkydory!” 

“Yes,” said Pa, “we can stay, unless the Government—” 

Margie’s gase fell from the glory of the sunlight on the 
Stars and Stripes—to the Inspector. 



Chapter Fourteen 
JOKUM 

The Utes brought their squaws and papooses to the cabin. 
All morning a cluster of them squatted around the base of 
the flagpole, brown faces upturned, black eyes marveling 
at the Red, White and Blue lines that straightened to the 
breeze above them. Ma found enough biscuit or cake to go 
around for all. The two Arapahoes stayed to themselves, 
and no one bothered them. The Inspector sat on the chop' 
ping block wiping his bald head, which glowed from the 
heat of the sun like a polished radish. After a time the 
younger braves went to the flat by the river to match 
horse for horse in races, while the old men watched them. 
The day had taken on a gala air. When noon rolled around, 
Pa invited Yarmony and his squaw to eat at the table in 
the house. 

The Inspector refused to join them; so he and Tom and 
Uncle Henry ate outside. The rest of them drew around 
the table. Singing Grass knew well enough how to manage 
her knife, but she was pulled about her fork. When Pa 
served the venison steak she looked at the tin plate with 
sparkling eyes and started in on the meat with her capable 
brown fingers. Yarmony nudged her. He had seen his 
white friends use their forks when he had eaten fish around 
their campfire at Hot Sulphur Springs. Picking up a piece 
of meat in his fingers, he impaled it on the tines and lifted 
it in triumph to his mouth. 


194 


Jokum 


£95 

His squaw, chuckling in delight, did likewise. And Ma, 
looking hard at Pa, picked up a piece in her own dainty 
fingers, gravely stuck it on the fork, and ate it. Margie 
choked and had to go to the water pail for a drink. 

A short time after Yarmony and Singing Grass had gone 
Pawinta brought the Arapahoe boys’ own horses and own 
trappings. He looked upon the strange youths with interest 
and lingered to ask questions about their country. Though 
he couldn’t understand much Arapahoe and they knew only 
a few words of Ute, the three of them were soon jabbering 
like magpies. What a hodgepodge of English, Indian, and 
sign language! When Tom grew tickled at their queer 
twisted speeches, they joined in his laughter. 

Now that the excitement was over and Pa had made his 
peace with Yarmony, he thought of the Inspector. "We’ll 
go and have a better look at the springs, Higginbee,” he 
said. "I want to take you across the river.” 

"No need.” The Inspector stood up. He folded his hand" 
kerchief carefully and put it in his hind pocket; then he 
took it out again, rumpled it, and wiped his bald spot. His 
wilted blue eyes looked at Margie. 

"You’re a spunky young miss,” he said. "D’ you like 
to live here?” 

"Oh, yes, sir!” 

"Hmp! I wouldn’t live in this tarnation wilderness for 
anything on earth!” 

"It won’t be wilderness long,” cried the girl. "Other 
people ’ll be coming and Pa says—” 

"I’m an honest man and I always pay my debts.” The 



196 


The Shining Mountains 


Inspector drew himself up with what dignity he could. “I’ve 
lost my hat, but thanks to you Fve still got my scalp/' He 
smoothed his fringe of hair affectionately. “I'll see to it 
that the Government allows your father’s claim." 

“Oh, th-thank you, sir!" 

“I don't want any thanks," said Mr. Higginbee sourly. 
“I want a hat. And I want to get to Denver City." 

Pa, jubilant at the turn luck had taken, gave the Inspector 
his own hat and found an old one to wear. Tom and 
Uncle Henry caught the Inspector's horse and hitched the 
teams to the wagons. Pa had decided Uncle Henry had 
better go with him to haul in provisions for winter. Ma 
got the money from the trunk for him to take. 

“You won't be afraid to stay by yourselves, will you, 
Em?" he asked anxiously. “Tom and Marge can tend to 
the milking." 

“No, Jimmy, we won't be afraid." And Ma looked at 
the flag. 

The valley seemed very quiet after the excitement of the 
last two days. With the men gone, Ma and her family 
would have had a lonesome time of it if the Arapahoe boys 
hadn't been there. Wasani shouldered the duty of supply- 
ing them with meat. While he was off with his gun, Run- 
ning Whirlwind rested in the shade of the cabin. The 
swelling was slow to go out of his ankle, though Ma bathed 
it often in hot vinegar and insisted that it not be used. 

Tom and Margie invented games the Indian lad could 
join in, but more often they sat cross-legged in the warm 



Jokum 


197 


grass and listened to him tell about the arrow makers and 
the buffalo hunters; about Thunder Bird, White Owl, and 
Painted Porcupine. Sometimes he made picture writing. 

“Why don’t we write that way?” exclaimed Tom. “It’s 
a heap more fun than to fool with spelling!” 

They amused themselves hours at a time writing messages 
to each other in the smooth dirt of the path. Margie wrote 
the most elaborate ones. Tom got tired waiting for her. 

“Hurry up,” he fidgeted. “You don’t have to draw so 
many flowers and things.” 

“Yes I do!” she insisted. Tom didn’t know how her fin' 
gers tingled to make pictures. All the pages of her sketch 
book were full, and the red pencil was worn to a stub. She’d 
used every scrap of paper she could find. She’d even dec' 
orated the peeled places in the cabin logs where the bark 
had scuffed off. Let Tom poke fun at her! Some time she 
aimed to be a real artist. If only she had a teacher! 

The Utes caused no trouble though they came often to 
stare up at the Stars and Stripes. Several days after Pa and 
Uncle Henry had gone, Pony Wilson made his appearance. 
The children were busy carrying small round boulders from 
the creek to line each side of the trail when they looked 
up and saw him. 

“Why hello, Pony!” cried Margie. 

“Huh!” He took time to glare at the Arapahoes before 
he cocked his eye at the gently rippling banner above. “That 
flag done the trick. If you hadn’t brung it jest when you 
did you’d have had trouble with them Utes.” 

“How’d you know? I thought you went to Hahn’s Peak!” 



The Shining Mountains 


‘"Jest happened to be up on the hill,” he replied crossly. 
“Feller can’t help seem’ things that goes on, can he, if he’s 
got eyes in his head? If the Injuns had started somepin’ 
I’d have come tearin’ down here, but I seen you was makin’ 
out pretty good.” 

He didn’t stay long. When he had clumped away, Run" 
ning Whirlwind asked, “Why he hate us so?” 

“I guess because the Arapahoes sheltered the man who 
stole his baby boy. That was over twelve years ago. He 
never did find his little lost son.” 

Running Whirlwind frowned. “Many nights around the 
campfire I listen to old men tell stories, but I never hear of 
any white papoose ” 

The subject was dropped, for at that moment Singing 
Grass came padding down the trail. She brought Ma a 
platter of spruce bark heaped with the biggest, reddest wild 
raspberries Margie had ever seen. And so fragrant! Ma was 
mightily pleased, though she washed them so much nearly 
all the color was gone by the time she let the family eat 
them. 

Another day the squaw brought some meaty white roots 
and showed Ma how the Utes pounded them into meal by 
rubbing between two rocks. Yampa roots, she called them. 
They were about the size of a man’s finger and tasted quite 
like parsnips. Margie sniffed the pungent fragrance. 

“I know,” she nodded. “The flowers are those flat lacy 
white ones that grow on tall stems in the meadows. We 
can find lots more.” 

Ma used the meal to thicken soup and boiled the whole 




The squaw wanted the family to stay and eat 








Jokum 


201 


tubers like ordinary vegetables, seasoning them with salt 
and butter. The family smacked their lips over them. Meat, 
bread, and dried foods did get tolerable monotonous. 

“Next year we’ll have a garden,” said Ma. 

Singing Grass told them where there were more rasp' 
berries. So one morning Ma got on old Peggy’s broad back. 
She took Danny in front of her, with Tom and Margie on 
behind, and they all rode half a mile up the creek. Jokum and 
the dogs tagged along. Chipmunks scampered away to their 
holes, cheeks bulging, and robins scolded sharply from the 
alders. The raspberries hung right over the water. They 
were so ripe many of them fell off and floated away, while 
those that Ma and the children gathered mashed down in 
their buckets and never would fill the pails. 

The sun was noon high when the berry pickers started 
home. They took a short cut across the sagebrush mesa. 
There was a smell of fall in the air, and splashes of red and 
yellow could be seen on the hillslopes. The smoke from 
the Indian camp spread in a thin hase over the valley. 

Ma stopped a minute at Yarmony’s lodge to show Singing 
Grass the berries. The squaw wanted the family to stay and 
eat. She was roasting a woodchuck in the ashes with its 
hair still on, and she had a big kettle of water with a few 
whole coffee berries floating on the surface. The kettle she 
had brought from the Agency at White River. 

The other squaws were busy at their own fires. One of 
them had boiled some deer ribs. She emptied them onto the 
low bushes to drain off the soup and screeched loudly for 
her family to come and help themselves. 




202 


The Shining Mountains 


Singing Grass, raking the woodchuck out of the ashes, 
began to scrape off the singed hair. “Heap good!” she 
urged. 

Ma looked at the blackened carcass. Suddenly she was in 
a mighty big hurry to get home. 

When they reached the cabin, Wasani was there dressing 
some young grouse he had shot. Running Whirlwind was 
helping him. Margie jerked off her sunbonnet and flung 
herself down in the shade. Her wrists burned with briar 
scratches. She laid them against the cool grass and spread 
out her fingers, stained with red juice. 

“Wish I had some paint this color. I’d make a picture 
of that round hill by the cave. It’s just covered with red 
bushes.” 

“Aw,” said Tom, “who’d want a picture of that hill when 
you can see it any time by lookin’ across the river?” 

“It won’t always be pretty. I’d like to remember it the 
way it is. In a few weeks the leaves ’ll all be gone.” 

“Yes, snow come before another moon,” nodded Running 
Whirlwind. “Arapahoes must travel.” 

“Rest as long as you can,” counseled Ma. “Your foot’s 
not very strong.” 

“Oh, don’t go yet!” Margie envisioned the long lone- 
some cold months ahead. 

“My mother, Willow Woman, watching for me.” 

“And your father at the trading post?” she added slowly. 

“Yes, he watching too.” 

“Stay a long time!” begged Tom. “It’s only September. 
We haven’t done half what we were going to.” 



Jokum 


203 


The days went by, warm and golden. Frost came nearly 
every night to silver the grass, and the wind in the aspen 
leaves sang a song different from the summer song. Run' 
ning Whirlwind could walk almost as well as ever. He and 
Wasani listened to the wind, grew restless.. Yet they lin' 
gered. Sometimes Pony’s blunt question, “What they doin’ 
here in Ute country?” came buying like a bothersome 
bumblebee into Margie’s mind. And sometimes she remem' 
bered the emptied trunk. 

Pawinta, the Ute boy, came visiting one afternoon. “Yar' 
mony heap hunt,” he said, looking wistfully toward the 
mountains. He explained that the chief and his best hunters 
had gone to a lake near the Rabbit Ears to find a strange 
creature reported to have horns larger than an elk and a 
great long nose. 

“Moose,” guessed Ma. 

“Wisht we could go to the Rabbit Ears.” Tom gazed 
at the range with almost as much longing as Pawinta. 

“Let’s explore Woodchuck Hill,” suggested Margie. 
“We’ve never been very far up.” 

“All right. Let’s!” 

The Indian boys were willing enough. Since Pawinta 
had been all over that hill, he took the lead. Jokum and the 
dogs were commanded to stay at home because they always 
ran ahead and flushed the game. The elk wouldn’t mind, 
and when Tom threw a stick at him the tear ducts of his 
eyes flashed angry red. 

“Here, Jokum!” Ma enticed him back with a sprinkle 
of salt in a tin pan. “You and Ponto and Spy can go 



204 


The Shining Mountains 


fishing with Danny and me down to the Deep Hole.” 

The five youngsters climbed through the sagebrush and 
the paper-dry rosin weeds. They stopped to investigate a 
knoll of curious white rocks where a mineral spring had 
once been. 

“Look!” yelled Tom. 

A long, gray, striped cat with monstrous tail shot into a 
hole under a bush. “That’s Tobe! Here, Tobe! Here, Tobe! 
What’s the matter with him?” 

“He hasn’t been home since Ma scolded him for getting 
on the table,” said Margie. “I guess he’s just gone wild.” 

No amount of coaxing could make the cat come out. 
They had to leave him and go on up the hill. An old gray" 
nosed grandfather woodchuck sat on a rock to watch them. 
He had his mouth so full of grass that he made a funny 
mumble when he tried to bark. 

“Fix warm nest for winter,” explained Running Whirl" 
wind. 

Pawinta chose the trail up the hollow between the shouh 
ders of the mountain. He and the Arapahoes could read 
every mark in the dust as easily as Margie could read words 
in a primer. 

“Here mouse,” said Wasani, pointing to tiny lacy im" 
prints. “And here deer come down. Get scared. Run that 
way.” 

Tom found a porcupine’s tracks. It was easy to tell them 
by their fine checkered pattern. Easy to recognise the marks 
of a coyote’s pads too, because they were like a dog’s, only 
a little longer and a little narrower. Pawinta discovered the 



Jokum 


205 


biggest track, bigger even than their own. He stopped them 
with a quick sign of warning, his eyes a-sparkle. 

“Bear! We find! 1 ’ 

Margie and Tom were not very certain they wanted to, 
but they followed their friends cautiously through the 
thicket of sarvice bushes. Pawinta suddenly halted and beck¬ 
oned. There, a few yards away, sat a roly-poly black bear, 
short legs sprawled lazily in front of him. With his fore¬ 
paws he hugged a sarvice bush and with his tongue lapped 
the sweet blue-black berries into his mouth. He grunted 
and gulled in deep pleasure, wagging his furry head. Even 
when Tom stepped on a stick that made a loud crachj he 
didn't seem much alarmed. He merely waddled across the 
gulch with a casual backward glance and stopped at the 
next good berry bush. 

“Make fat for winter,” said Running Whirlwind. “When 
cold come, he find den. Sleep till spring.” 

Wasani murmured something in Arapahoe. 

“Huh?” said Tom. 

“He talk to bear,” explained Running Whirlwind. “Bear 
heap wise.” 

“Good medicine,” nodded Pawinta. “Utes—bears—same 
family. Many snows ago Utes were bears.” 

Running Whirlwind listened respectfully. “I not know 
about that, but I have hear the old men tell how bears can 
take care of friends against enemies and can even maybeso 
bring back life. All Indians know bears have magic in 
many ways.” He looked down at the sign on his moccasins. 

The three boys were so solemn that Tom and Margie 



206 


The Shining Mountains 


didn’t dare smile. They ate some berries and started back. 
Pawinta left them at the point of the hill to cut across to 
the Ute camp. 

u Ma’s home,” said Tom. “I hear her rattling pans.” 

“Mercy, that can’t be Ma!” Margie flew for the cabin 
as the din continued. “It’s Jokum! Somebody left the door 
open and—oh, my goodness!” 

The room was a sight. Everything that was loose was 
on the floor, and some things not intended to be loose. 
Jokum had had a delightful afternoon. He had started down 
the river with Ma but had been scolded for wading through 
the best trout holes and so had come sulking home. He’d 
been busy every minute since. A dosen puppies couldn’t 
have done more. Bedding was scattered all over! Ma’s white 
comforter lay tom on the woodbox. Blankets were dragged 
behind the stove. Freshly ironed clothes had been pulled 
off their nails and mauled and trampled on. Kettles, dented 
tin plates, shoes, dried apples, corn meal—all in a mess! 
When Margie saw him he was standing on his hind legs 
so as to chew the frilled paper off the top corner shelf. One 
jerk and everything came crashing about his head—extract 
bottles, mustache cup, keepsakes, album— 

“Shoo! Scat! Get out of here!” 

Jokum grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be 
a hinged black leather case with crimson velvet lining, and 
skittered for fresh air and safety. 

“Oh, oh!" Margie made a desperate lunge, but missed. 
“He’s got the daguerreotype! Catch him!” 

Tom and the Indian boys gave chase. He wrinkled his iim 



Jokum 


207 


pudent nose, flirted his ridiculous tail and managed to keep 
just beyond their reach. When they had to stop for breath, 
he watched them with mischievous eyes and chewed the 
red velvet. 

Wasani finally fooled him and snatched the picture. 

“Oh, give it here!’’' Margie was so winded she could 
barely gasp. 

The Indian wiped his fingers on the front of his buck' 
skin shirt before handing her the case. The girl of the 
picture still smiled. Thank goodness she wasn’t hurt! The 
glass wasn’t even broken. But the velvet lining was all torn 
loose. 

“Jokum, I could skin you!” 

“Can’t you stick it back?” said Tom. 

She tried with a paste of flour and water. “It’ll never look 
so nice,” she mourned. When she had done the best she 
could, she laid the case on the table to dry, weighting it 
down with the iron. 

Tom was gathering up the broken bottles. The cabin 
would smell of extracts for a long time to come. Margie 
began to dust off bedding and put things back in their places. 
Ma came before she was half through. Pony Wilson was 
with her, and Danny was riding the little gray burro. 

“It’s a long jog fer a little feller. Glad me an’ Music jest 
happened by.” 

“Did the Arapahoe boys go hunting?” Ma called. “I 
saw them riding up the valley. We’ve got more meat now 
than we can take care of.” 

Margie stood in the door, the fragments of the mustache 



208 


The Shining Mountains 


cup in her hands. “I don’t know. They didn’t say any' 
thing.” 

Tom squeezed past her, started to take a step down the 
trail, made a surprised leap instead to one side. “Hey!” He 
bent over, hands on knees, to stare at something. 

Margie went to see. “Why it’s picture writing scratched 
in the dirt! There’s two people on horseback, and that line 
with lots of peaks in it must be mountains.” 

“Yes, and those triangles are tepees.” 

They stared at it a moment in silence. 

“Running Whirlwind drew it,” Margie said at length. 
“I guess—I guess it means he and Wasani have started back 
to the Arapahoe camp.” 

“Yep. Their saddles and blankets are gone. Aw geranb 
urn!” 

“Why didn’t they tell us they were going?” cried the 
girl, vexed with disappointment. 




Chapter Fifteen 

SWAP PONY FOR PAPOOSE 

The Arapahoes had caught their horses and gone as 
strangely as they had come. 

"IPs funny they’d start so late in the day,” fretted Margie. 

"At least they might’ve said good-by!” scowled Tom. 

Ma looked over at the banks of Soda Creek where the 
silver willow leaves rippled in the fall breeze. "I guess it’s 
time those boys left,” she said. "Yes, it’s high time.” 

"I warned you not to trust no ’Rapahoes,” grunted Pony 
Wilson. "Sneaked in on you and now they’re sneakin’ out. 
You better hunt around and see what’s missin’.” 

"Goodness sake. Pony, they wouldn’t take anything!” 
Margie pushed back her dark tumbled hair and gazed wist' 
fully up the valley. "They were nice even if they were In' 
dians. I wonder if we’ll ever see ’em again.” 

Ma stepped into the topsyturvy kitchen. "What in 
creation!” 

"Just Jokum,” sighed her daughter. "Look, Ma, what he 
did to the daguerreotype.” She brought the little black 
square case to the better light at the door. "Look how he 
tore—” 

But a horny hand plucked the picture from her. Pony 
Wilson stood staring at the girl in the oval frame. His 
stubby fingers trembled. 

“Cinthy!” 


209 


210 


The Shining Mountains 


Margie’s eyes widened. "Cinthy—” she repeated. "Why, 
that’s, that’s—” 

"—my Cinthy,” nodded Pony, moistening his dry lips. 
"Little Billy’s maw.’’ 

"Oh, Pony, you—your wife!” 

"Great geranium!” gaped Tom. 

"Where’d you git this?” 

"It was in the box of looking glasses.” 

Everybody began to explain. Pony shook his head in 
bewilderment. "I dunno,” he said, "I dunno how it got 
there. It was in my pocket that time I was knocked out of 
my senses, and it was gone when I come to.” 

His thumbnail pried at the lining. A flush of excitement 
was on his cheeks. 

"Don’t!” cried Margie. "I just got it pasted.” 

"The map. That’s where I hid the map the Frenchman 
give me! I’ll shore find the gold with that to go by.” 

"I don’t see any map,” said Tom. 

It s—gone. 

"You reckon Jokum swallered it? Or it might’ve dropped 
on the ground somewhere.” Tom began a swift search. 

Pony shook his head. "No use lookin’. ’Course it ain’t 
where I put it! ’Course Thurston took it out these many 
years gone! He must’ve guessed what I done with it. That’s 
why he stole the pi’ture. Though how come it got buried 
in that box. Cinthy—” 

He stood a long time, ears deaf to all they said, eyes hazy 
with the distance of things long past. Then he stumbled 
away, the daguerreotype still in his hand. 



Swap Pony for Papoose 


211 


Cinthy. Poor little long-ago Cinthy. And poor Pony. 
Margie couldn’t think of him as ever being young and eager 
and in love. Twelve years of living in the mountains alone 
or with the Indians must have changed him a lot. But he’d 
always loved his Cinthy. Margie had a moment of under¬ 
standing. Now she could guess why he’d shunned the in¬ 
side of their house and women’s fixin’s. They’d reminded 
him too sharply of his girl wife who had died. 

“Haven’t things happened the strangest?” she murmured. 
“If I hadn’t found that buried box, and if we hadn’t come 
to Pony’s valley—” 

“Yeah,” grumbled Tom, “and if old Thurston hadn’t 
stole the map out of the picture—” He gave a gusty sigh. 
“Listen to Spot mooing her head off. Come on, Marge, we 
might as well go and milk.” 

Calling the dogs, they trudged to the meadow to drive in 
the cows. No patter of moccasins beside them. No Run¬ 
ning Whirlwind and Wasani to startle the peaceful herd 
with wolf-keyed yells. Margie heard the squeak of halyards 
and glanced back at the cabin. Ma was taking down the 
flag for the night. Pa was mighty particular about proper 
respect to the nation’s emblem. The naked pine pole point¬ 
ing into the red autumn sunset had a lonesome look. The 
squatty log house seemed very small under the vast hollow 
of the sky. 

“There’s not another white family in all this Yampa 
Valley,” she thought with a shiver, “and now there’s only 
Ma and Tom and Danny and me.” 

A coyote slunk out on the ridge and sent the dogs a jeer- 



212 


The Shining Mountains 


ing challenge. She ran to catch up with Tom. When they 
had finished milking and were hurrying home, they saw a 
little bunch of Indians riding down the mesa trail. One was 
big and fat, and another wore a red flannel shirt. Colorow 
and Two Feathers! Why were they coming to the flat now? 

Margie and Tom hurried to the cabin as hard as they 
could, milk sloshing out of the pails all over them. Ma was 
making biscuit at the split pole table. She hadn’t heard hoof' 
beats because of the crackle of a green branch in the fire. 

“Ma. Colorow—” 

Gravel sprayed in the path. The ponies were sliding to a 
stop. Indians had caused Ma no uneasiness since the day 
of the flag raising, but one glance at these told her they 
were bent on trouble. The gun stood in the corner, empty. 
No time to load. Buckskin legs were flickering toward the 
door. The dogs were no help—Ponto was just a pup, and 
Spy was scared to death of Indians. Ma’s eyes went to Danny 
playing on the bed in the corner. She gripped the bread 
dough hard. 

“Tom, take the water pail. Pretend you’re going to the 
creek. Run get Yarmony.” 

“Oh, Ma, Yarmony’s gone to the Rabbit Ears!” 

Yarmony gone! Ma had one awful blank moment. That 
was why these renegades had come now. They knew there 
was not a soul to stop them. Superstition for the flag had 
kept them away in daytime, but now they meant mischief. 

A dark bulk filled the doorway. 

“Margie,” Ma’s voice sounded squeezed, “you and Tom 
set the other end of the table.” 



Swap Pony for Papoose 


213 


“Don’t let on you’re frightened!” That’s what she was 
trying to say. Colorow came and stood shoulder to shoulder 
with the little woman in blue calico. 

“When Big Jim come?” 

Ma didn’t give an inch. She peered out the window as 
if she expected to see Pa any moment. “What do you want?” 
she said. 

Two Feathers pushed into the room, sniffing. UnfortU' 
nately, the smell of the extracts that had soaked into the 
ground from the broken bottles was still strong. It reminded 
him of his humiliation. He glared about. His glittering 
gase stopped at Danny’s diminutive red head. “Catchum 
papoose!” He stalked forward. “Make heap good Ute!” 

Margie was ahead of him. She snatched Danny and 
whirled around the corner of the table. 

Tom doubled his fists. “You leave my little brother 
alone!” 

Colorow grunted and made an imperious gesture. Two 
Feathers was acting too important. Colorow would do the 
talking. Two Feathers sullenly drew back. Other braves 
crowded into the room. The fat Ute planted his weight 
solidly on his broad moccasins, folding unctuous hands 
across his middle. He considered Danny. 

“Swap pony for papoose,” he proposed. 

Ma had to try twice before she could speak. “No!” 

Colorow held up one hand with the fingers spread, mean' 
ing he offered five ponies. 

Ma shook her head and energetically kneaded the dough 
to keep down her fear. 



214 


The Shining Mountains 


Then Colorow held up both hands, gesturing three times. 
That meant thirty. Thirty ponies he was offering for Danny! 
But he didn't really mean it. He was making big talk just 
to show off. He knew well enough he could take what he 
wanted when he was ready. 

Ma gathered Danny into her own arms and threw her 
apron up over him. He was too frightened to cry. 

“Money!" Colorow next demanded. He was enjoying 
himself! The white woman was scared, he could tell. 

“Me heap poor," Ma quavered, “but make biscuit, give 
Utes sugar!" 

“White squaw in Denber city got heaps money." 

Ma glanced around her helplessly. 

Margie knew there was no money in the house. Ma had 
sent it all with Pa. She racked her brain for something that 
would do instead. Maybe the Little Silver Bear. Frantically 
she dug in her blue bag, gave the charm a hurried rub to 
try to make it shine. 

“Here! Silver—like money!" 

Colorow reached for it, gave a surprised snort, and yanked 
his hand away. His black eyes started from the fat folds 
of his face. 

“It's—it's good medicine," stammered Margie. 

A strange stillness hung over the room. The teakettle 
gurgled on the stove. Outside, kildeers cried above the 
marshes. A calf bawled in the meadow. 

Margie held the charm to the failing light from the win- 
dow. “See? Silver. Like money," she repeated, her voice 
jumping with her heart. 



Swap Pony for Papoose 


Ill 

Danny chose this time to let out a screech. Colorow’s 
gaze darted to the wisp of red hair that showed above Mas 
apron. 

Margie thrust the small talisman at the Ute. “Oh, 
please—” 

The renegade fell back. His braves tumbled through the 
door. Two Feathers gave a wild yell and used the window 
for his exit. Colorow’s shoulders that had been so haughty 
a minute ago, hunched like an old man’s. He mumbled, 
made quick signs with his fat brown hands, watched the 
Little Bear. He backed off, always watching. His moccasins 
scuffed along on the trail. Horses’ hoofs pounded. 

The Indians had vanished like smoke before the wind. 
Ma sank into the rocker and rocked and hugged Danny 
and wiped her eyes on the hem of her apron. 

“Whew!” whistled Tom. 

Margie leaned against the door frame to steady her trem- 
bling muscles. Stupidly she stared at the Little Silver Bear. 
Just an odd grayish chunk of metal. It wasn’t sensible that 
this could send the Indians pegging. But it had. 

“I’m beginning to believe it is magic!” She laughed 
hysterically. 

Ma got up to rescue the milk from the pup. 

“Gagy?” wailed Danny who had put up with enough for 
one day and thought it was time to eat. 

“Yes, son. We’re going to have supper now.” Ma 
stroked the red hair. “We’ve a great deal to be thankful 
for. A very great deal!” 

They had still more reason to be thankful that night, for 



2 l6 


The Shining Mountains 


Pa and Uncle Henry got home just at dark. The family 
rushed out with the lantern to meet them. The teams pulled 
through the willows, the wheels sighed to a dripping stop. 

“Jimmy!" 

“Paf’ 

“Where's Uncle Henry?" 

Pa leaped from his seat, laughing and hugging them all 
around. His face was prickly with whiskers and his clothes 
smelled of campfire smoke. “Henry's here all right. And 
we've got a surprise for you. Someone from Missouri." 

“Missouri!” 

“Oh, Pa, is it Hute Richardson?" squealed Margie. 

“No'm, it’s jes’ me," declared a humble voice, as a grin* 
ning black boy emerged from the shadows into the circle 
of yellow lamp light. 

“Why, it’s Darky Dave from Grandfather’s," called Tom. 

“Yassuh, tha’s right!" The young Negro snatched off his 
floppy hat which was sizes too large for him and ducked 
his head in salutation. His white teeth showed in a wide 
arc. “Howdy, Miss Emmie! Howdy, Miss Marge! Well 
suh, Mistah Tom!" 

“Why, Dave!" Ma could hardly believe her eyes. “Mercy 
sakes, how’d you get away out here in Colorado?" 

“Your brother Fred brought him," said Pa. 

“Fred!" 

“Yes, he came west last month with a wagon train, all 
set to make his fortune in the mines. I stopped to see the 
Yankees at Empire and they told me. He figured Dave 
would be a big help." 



Swap Pony for Papoose 


217 


“Yassum. But he say I eats more ’n what I’se wuth. So 
he trabel off and tell me to stay with Mistah Will at 
Empire.'” 

“Fred’s bound to go wherever there’s new gold excite- 
ment,” explained Pa. “And food’s out of sight in these 
mining towns. Will didn’t know what to do with Dave, 
so I said I’d take him. Tell you, I’m mighty glad to have 
him. He’s a good worker.” 

“But, Jimmy—” Ma took Pa aside. “I don’t see how we 
can— 

“He’ll fit in. We’ll need all the help we can get; and 
then winter may catch us before we’re ready. Got any 
supper for hungry tramps?” 

Ma conjured up a meal in no time. “The biscuits are 
warmed over,” she apologised, “and they’re not very good. 
Colorow was bothering.” 

That word Colorow reminded Margie of the Little Silver 
Bear. What had she done with it? She felt in her pocket. 
Not there. Had she put it on the table? Ma hadn’t seen it. 
It wasn’t on the shelf, nor in the blue bag. It didn’t seem 
to be anywhere! 



Chapter Sixteen 

PREPARATIONS FOR WINTER 

What had become of the Little Silver Bear? 

Margie hunted for it high and low. The family turned 
in and helped her. They shook the bedding, looked in the 
bottom of the woodbox, searched every crack and corner 
of the cabin. 

“Maybe Danny threw it somewhere. Or Jokum carried 
it off,” suggested Ma. “Or maybe it bounced out of your 
pocket when you were running to meet Pa.” 

Margie spent a whole morning looking through the grass 
beside the trail and lifting the yellow cottonwood leaves that 
the wind had tossed there. She found nothing but beggars' 
lice, the small prickly seed pods of wild forget-me-nots, and 
had to spend the rest of the day picking them off her stock¬ 
ings and dress. 

“It's bound to turn up somewhere,'' comforted Ma. 
“We'll all keep our eyes open. Anyhow it’s nothing val¬ 
uable.” 

But the Little Silver Bear never did come to light. The 
days rolled into weeks. The hills were mottled gold. A few 
grasshoppers still crackled through the warm dry weeds, and 
here and there small ragged purple asters squinted at the 
sun. Down in the marshes among the brown sedges muskrat 
houses the size and shape of haymows were to be seen. 

The surface of the ponds was never quiet. Sleek swim¬ 
mers left trails through the green scum. Young mallards 
218 


Preparations for Winter 


219 


and teals stood up on the water and flapped their wings. 
The mud was patterned with tracks of mink, beaver and 
otter. Along the river were many freshly gnawed white 
stumps where the bank beaver had felled cottonwoods. 

Yarmony pointed these out to Pa and shook his head. 
“Heap snow come,” he warned. “Beaver know.” He also 
showed Pa the yellow jackets’ nests built high in the trees 
instead of low in the bushes. 

Pa knew he must drive the cattle some place else to winter. 
They were fat and fine now, but before long their feed 
would be covered to a depth of three or four feet if Yarmony 
was right. The Indian told him of a deep valley or Hole 
in the cedar country to the southeast where, he said, the 
snow was light and the herd could forage during the cold 
season. He and Pa rode over on horseback to see it. They 
were gone three days. On their return, Pa made plans to 
drive all the stock to this sheltered spot before the storms 
set in. Uncle Henry agreed to winter with the cattle for 
part interest in them, and Dave was willing to stay with 
him. They planned to build a small cabin and lay in a good 
supply of provisions. 

“We can graze the cattle here a while yet,” Pa said, “and 
I reckon we can put up enough hay to keep one cow all 
winter.” 

“Isn’t it too late for haying?” asked Uncle Henry. 

“It is tolerable late, but I’ve a mind to try. They say 
there’s a heap of nourishment in this dry grass.” 

So, while Pa and Uncle Henry took the teams and went 
back Outside for more provisions, Darky Dave set to work 



220 


The Shining Mountains 


in the meadow up Soda Creek cutting the wild hay with the 
hand scythe. Dave didn’t mind the Indians, and the Indians 
paid little attention to him. Early and late he swung the 
scythe with such skill that the small park was soon dotted 
with respectable haymows. 

The rest of them caught trout to salt down in a jar. And 
Ma made cottage cheese and butter which she packed away 
in buckets and in the tall thin two^quart cans that had been 
brought from Missouri. Even if one cow stayed, milk and 
cream would be precious in the winter. Nights were so cold 
now that food would keep a long time. 

Margie and Tom climbed the trail up Woodchuck Hill 
and gathered fruit to dry and to make into jam. They picked 
sarvice berries so ripe and sweet that the pink juice oozed 
out of them. They picked chokecherries, shiny and black, 
and ate almost as many as they picked; then had to munch 
a handful of haws to take the pucker out of their mouths. 
When they started home, they always sat down under the 
last shade bush to rest before they crossed the sagebrush. 

Their world was ablaze with color. How Margie did 
long for paints to paint the waxy crimson of scrub oaks, 
the red of mountain ash, the cream of frosted brake ferns. 
She had tried mixing red and yellow clay with water and 
daubing it on her drawings. It didn’t work at all. Neither 
did berry juices. A shame to let so much beauty go to 
waste! Every tiny bush that nobody noticed in summer was 
a glowing candle flame. The mountains, gold with aspens, 
almost looked like the Shining Ones nowadays. 

But this shine would not last. Pretty soon the wind would 



Preparations for Winter 


221 


blow the trees bare. She sighed. Were there really Shining 
Mountains somewhere and would she ever find them? Pony 
Wilson vowed he’d never seen any. 

A little gray garter snake on his way to the rocks for 
winter slipped across the trail, rustling the leaves that lay 
like flakes of hammered sunshine on the brown earth. A 
striped chipmunk was busy hoarding rose apples in an old 
hollow stump. Robins, plump and complacent in their dull 
fall plumage, scolded from the heavy-laden bushes, and 
noisy flocks of blackbirds winged overhead. 

One morning Dave came running back to the cabin, his 
eyes rolling in fright. “Dar’s somebody on de hill keeps 
a-whistlin’ at me,” he declared. “ ’Deed Miss Emmie, they 
is. Ah answered him some, but he don’t come in sight.” 

“Now, Dave,” scolded Ma, “you know it couldn’t be 
anyone.” 

“Yassum ” He shifted uneasily, refusing to go back 
till they all went with him. As they reached the meadow, 
not a sound disturbed the autumn stillness except the mur¬ 
mur of the creek. 

“There,” said Ma. “You see? Shame on you, Dave. And 
such a big boy too.” 

Just then an eerie whistle pierced the silence—a whistle 
that began on a thin high note and grew in volume till it 
filled the tiny valley. The dogs broke into staccato barks 
and bounded excitedly into the woods. 

“What’s that?” gasped Ma. 

“Look!” cried Tom. “Over there coming out of those 
trees—a big bull elk. I betcha that’s what did it.” 



222 


The Shining Mountains 


The elk was a scarred old leader with a mighty spread of 
horns. He was little concerned about dogs or people, but 
raised his head to answer the challenge that came from 
the opposite ridge—the leering whistle of a younger bull. 

“Look out, Miss Emmie!” yelled Dave suddenly. “They’s 
elk everywhere! Laws'a'mercy!” 

The dogs had frightened the herd of elk. Cows, calves, 
yearlings crashed through the quaking aspen straight toward 
the huddled group. 

“Run!” shrieked Margie, but there was no chance. Great 
longdegged snorting critters were coming right at them, 
faster than stampeding cattle. One minute Dave and the 
Crawfords thought they’d surely be trampled. But the 
next, the herd parted and lunged by on each side, so close 
they could have touched them. 

Often after that the family heard the wild buglers chah 
lenging each other across the hills. 

Pa and Uncle Henry returned with the wagons. They 
unloaded sack after sack of flour, meal, and sugar, till Ma 
exclaimed: 

“Jimmy, we can’t begin to use all that!” 

“Eight months. That's a long time. Once the range is 
snowed up there’ll be no getting out till spring.” 

Pa had brought other things too—a bolt of calico, blan- 
kets, yam, ammunition, shoes. Before he had left he had 
drawn paper patterns of their feet to be sure to get the right 
sizes. Ma frowned when she saw Margie’s new shoes. 

“Why, those are boys’!” 

“Good and sensible,” said Pa. 



Preparations for Winter 


223 


Margie tried them on. They were stub'toed and heavy, 
not at all the neat, fashionable cloth top footgear she had 
been expecting. 

“Pshaw now,” Pa was sorry if they didn’t suit, “I figured 
they’d be the very thing.” 

Margie blinked hard. She clumped around the room. 
“They—they fit all right. Anyway there’ll be no one but 
Pony and the Indians to see ’em.” 

The ugly shoes were only half her disappointment. She 
had hoped Pa would think to fetch a drawing pad, a new 
pencil, and maybe—maybe a box of colors. 

The mail he had brought was some comfort. Margie had 
two letters. Taking a pin out of the bib of her apron she 
opened them carefully. The first was from her cousin Mary 
Ann Yankee and was written with painstaking flourishes. 
She scanned the page, reading bits aloud. School had started 
in Empire. Mary Ann had a new mohair dress, “very be' 
coming.” 

The second was from Barbara Ellen, her chum in Mis' 
souri. This Margie read to herself, poring over each page 
with eager interest. Barbara Ellen was going to the Seminary 
in Sedalia this winter. Rissy Mosby was there too, was 
doing her hair up, and could talk of nothing but beaux. 
They were all invited to a Sociable. Barbara Ellen had got 
the letter Margie had sent by Hute Richardson and had 
showed it to Jody Havely. “She said your drawings were 
real good, Marge! Oh, do come back to Sedalia. I miss you 
a lot!” 

Margie felt a warm rush of pleasure at Jody Havely’s 



224 


The Shining Mountains 


praise. If she just could go back to Missouri and take les' 
sons! She shut her eyes to imagine what she’d be doing if 
they hadn’t come West. She’d be going to the Seminary, 
and of course she’d have been invited to the Sociable. Seemed 
almost as though she could hear the jolly chatter of the 
young people and smell fresh cup cakes. 

But when she opened her eyes, there were the mountains. 
And the vast autumn stillness. Tears of homesickness 
blinded her. Here she was away off in Yampa Valley, a 
place that wasn’t even on the map. Why had they come so 
far? Why hadn’t they stopped in Empire with Uncle Will’s 
family? 

She heard Tom whistling cheerfully. He vowed he didn’t 
care about school and such. And Pa was too busy to think 
of the Missouri he had left. She stole a look at Ma, who 
was seated on the chopping block reading a letter from 
Grandmother. 

‘Think of it!” There was a catch in Ma’s laugh— 
‘They’re shaking the peaches down to the hogs, and we 
can’t have one!” 

Ma might joke about peaches, but peaches weren’t what 
she was wishing for so much as people—neighbors dropping 
in, chicken dinners, quilting bees, singing in the church down 
the lane. . . . 

Margie stood up. She glared at her shoes. She’d wear 
’em and like ’em! And she wouldn’t let a soul know how 
much she’d wanted a color box. 

Now that the provisions were in, Pa and Uncle Henry 
went to work on the cabin. To the ringing of ax, hammer. 



Preparations for Winter 


225 


and saw, another room was added. Puncheon floors were 
laid, and the real glass windows which Pa had brought 
in the last load (“Ay Jonathan, without breaking a one!”) 
were fitted into the square holes that had been left for 
them. Bed frames were built, too, with slats of wood to 
hold the grass mattresses. Last of all, a thick layer of dirt 
was tamped down on the roof. 

“That ought to keep the cold and snow out,” said Pa. 

Dave continued to work with the hay. Uncle Henry 
dragged in so much wood that the cabin could hardly be 
seen above the piles around it. Margie and Tom helped him 
stand it up like tepee poles to shed the snow. Pa took his 
gun and went out to get the winter’s meat. He started on 
Monty early one morning, returning at sunset. He had a 
bulgy wet gunny sack tied behind his saddle. It was filled 
with silver-scaled fish. 

“You never saw the like! I was crossing that big creek two 
miles up when Monty shied and there the water was alive 
with grayling. Running up to spawn, I reckon. I took the 
gunny sack from under my saddle and filled it in a jiffy. 
We’ll have to call that stream Fish Creek.” 

Ma was glad to get the grayling and started right away 
to salt it down as she had done with the trout. “They’ll 
make a nice variety in winter.” 

“Ay Jonathan, the Lord’s doing His best to provide for 
us!” Pa’s voice was gruff. “I’ve had good hunting too.” 

He had killed eight elk on the slopes of Storm Mountain. 
These were packed in and hung up on the back of the 
cabin to freeze. Pa cured out the hides so they could be 



226 


The Shining Mountains 


put down on the new puncheon floors for a carpet. Ma and 
Margie laid them carefully with the hair all the same way 
so they could be easily swept. 

By now the trees were nearly all bare. The song birds 
had gone and the woodchucks had holed up. The big pond 
in the marsh was as quiet as a looking glass. But the iron 
spring boiled harder than it ever had. 

“Storm a'comin’,” said Pony Wilson. 

The Utes packed up their lodges, and with tepee poles 
dragging behind their ponies, took the worn trail down the 
valley. 

“Heap snow,” warned Yarmony, measuring as high as 
his shoulders. “Big Jim, Big Jim’s squaw and papooses come 
with Utes.” 

“Big Jim not afraid of snow,” said Pa, and bade them 
good'by. 

Pony Wilson pulled out a day or two later. He came by 
the cabin to give Margie the old daguerreotype. “Cinthy 
she was jest a girl and she liked young uns. Reckon she’d 
be happier here,” he mumbled. “ ’Sides, I don’t need no 
pi’ture to remember her.” 

“I’ll love her, Pony,” said Margie around the lump in her 
throat. “But you’ll be back next spring!” 

“I dunno. Useter to think these old hills had somepin’ 
fer me, but now—I dunno.” 

“Good'by, Pony! Good-by!” she called and waved as long 
as she could see his stumpy figure trudging ahead of the 
little mouse'colored burro. 

Soon after he had left, Pa and Uncle Henry packed pro' 




He came by the cabin to give Margie the old daguerreotype 


























Preparations for Winter 


229 


visions into the Hole, and built a cabin there. On the 
eighteenth of November they rounded up the cattle and 
horses and started them for the winter range. Spy and Ponto 
helped to drive them. Only Lil, a white cow with horns 
and a mean eye, was left to furnish milk to the family. She 
stood in the corral mooing mournfully for the herd. A 
small shed had been built for her, and the hay had been 
hauled in close and put up in a neat stack. 

Pa went with Uncle Henry and Dave to make sure they 
reached the Hole all right. He came home afoot, getting 
in on the eve of the thirtieth just ahead of a hard snow' 
storm. The dogs had stayed with the cattle. 

That night a band of elk bedded down in the valley all 
around the cabin. Some of the calves got lost from their 
mothers and bawled so much the family couldn’t sleep. In 
the morning the herd moved on west toward the lower coun' 
try, and Jokum, who had been restless and uneasy for the 
last week, went away with them. 

Tom tried to call him back. “Here, Jokum! Here, 
Jokum!” 

The young elk paused, puzzled what to do. 

“There wouldn’t be much here for him to eat in winter,” 
Ma reminded gently. “We’ll have to let him go, son.” 

Tom gulped, disappeared around the house, and came in 
after a while with a suspicious streak or two on his cheeks. 

All day the snow fell in wet flakes as big as feathers, 
which the wind caught and piled in drifts. When Pa went 
to the creek for water his tracks sifted full before he could 
come back, and he had to break a new trail. 



230 


The Shining Mountains 


“This'll close the passes," he said, “till spring." 

Margie pressed her nose against the east window pane and 
looked out at the driving storm with wide, anxious eyes. 
Snowed in more than a hundred miles from any town! 
Locked up inside a strange white world! 




Chapter Seventeen 
A WHITE WORLD 

The storm continued for several days. Occasionally Mar- 
gie and Tom, from their lookout posts at the windows, could 
catch a glimpse of the gray sky and see the wind whip the 
snow into fuss along the ridge of Woodchuck. The same 
wind sniffed hungrily around the cabin. Ma cut up an old 
suit of underwear to make weatherstrippings for the door. 

Pa brought in some pieces of red spruce and with the saw 
and the ax went to work on something. 

“Oh, I know!” cried the boy. “It’s goin’ to be a sled! 
Can I help make it, Pa?” 

The two of them were so engrossed that they didn’t seem 
to hear the doleful howls of the timber wolves. With the 
coming of winter the fierce gray hunters ranged close in 
daytime as well as at night. 

But Margie heard them howling plainly enough. 

“Ooooo!” she shivered, putting down the wristlet she was 
starting to knit and hitching her stool closer to the stove. 
“I wish they’d go on off!” 

“Listen!” said Ma. “What’s that scratching?” 

Margie jumped up to open the door a crack. A gust of 
wind swept into the room along with something else that 
was gray and furry. 

“Why, it’s Tobe!” 

The storm had driven the big cat home. Wild as a lynx, 
he darted behind the stove and crouched, growling. For 


231 


232 


The Shining Mountains 


a long time he stayed there, lashing his tail and glaring with 
ferocious green eyes. But gradually he slipped back into his 
old habits and would rub against Margie’s legs or lie on 
the elk rug and purr like forty bumble bees. And Danny 
could ruff his hair and pull his tail without the slightest dam 
ger of being clawed. 

The Crawfords soon discovered that other friends had 
stayed to brave the cold. Tiny feathered visitors wearing 
jaunty black caps came calling through the cottonwoods: 

"Chickadee—adee—adee !” 

Margie made a peephole in the frost on the window glass, 
through which she watched them swing on the under side 
of the tree twigs and peek into cracks in the bark with 
bright bead eyes. She fetched a generous piece of suet, and 
bundling into her things tramped around through the snow 
to nail it by her window, where all bird folk who came to 
feast could be seen and enjoyed from the inside of the cabin. 

The chickadees soon had company. A blue jay, discover" 
ing the treat, scattered the smaller birds with a raucous 
"Ja^ay! Ja^ay!’’ He landed on the sill with a flaunt of his 
rakish topknot and gobbled all he could. Then he crammed 
his bill full and flew off, only to be back in a minute for 
more. 

"The greedy rascal!" snorted Tom. "He’s taking three 
times his share and hiding it in the crotch of that dead 
stump.’’ 

At last the storm cleared, leaving a world of darling 
beauty. Every tree wore a white hood and every bush a 
trailing gown of brilliants. The sun went down in a red 



A White World 


233 


blase of splendor. Pa banked the fire well to keep the 
cabin cosy, but by morning the water in the pail had ice on it. 

Toward noon Tom and Margie put on their warmest 
things, wrapped their feet and legs in gunny sacks, and hur- 
ried out to play. They shuffled to the shed to visit Lil, then 
stumped to the creek to see what they could see. 

"Come on, let’s go to the iron spring,*” suggested Tom, 
plunging off the trail into the soft snow. "Whoopee! Look 
how deep it is. Clear above my knees.” 

He scooped a handful into Margie’s face and was off. She 
took after him. Laughing, tumbling, and falling over their 
awkward leggings they waded down the incline. Reaching 
the iron spring, they decided to go farther. The white slope 
of the hill that had been clean and unmarred the night before 
was scribbled with trails. 

"All the critters in creation must have been playin’ tag 
around here last night,” commented Tom. "What do you 
s’pose made these funny lookin’ marks?” 

"A rabbit!” cried Margie. "And there he goes!” 

"Humph, from his tracks you’d think his front feet were 
headed one way and his hind feet another. Say, d’you see 
that pair of eyes moving yonder?” 

"Eyes? That’s a weasel! It’s after the rabbit. Throw 
something!” 

They caught up handfuls of snow and slung them, and 
the long lean hunter popped into a hole under some willows 
with a flick of his black'tipped tail. 

"I thought weasels were brown and yellow,” said Tom. 
"Those we saw last summer were.” 



234 


The Shining Mountains 


“Guess they change their coats winter time so they can 
look like the snow. Anyhow we saved one rabbit. Let's 
go on.” 

Steam was rising from the sulphur spring and from the 
warm pools in the edge of the river. Margie and Tom stood 
on the bank watching the dark stream ripple past and dis" 
appear under the ice some distance away. A burst of clear, 
belhlike notes startled them. They saw a plump slate-gray 
bird bobbing up and down on a round boulder. He hopped 
right into the water, picked a periwinkle off the river bot' 
tom, and resumed his cold perch with another snatch of 
song. Tom and Margie could hardly believe their eyes. 
They thought all the song birds had gone. Besides, none 
of them could walk around under water without even get" 
ting his feathers wet! 

“Maybe he's a duck,” said Tom doubtfully. 

“Ducks don't sing. Look how the funny little fellow 
keeps curtsying! He doesn't care a jot if it is snowy. I'm 
glad he's here!” 

Margie gathered a bouquet of the tight pink winter buds 
that dangled from the alders. 

“Whew,” panted Tom. “It's some job to buck this snow. 
Let's rest a minute.” 

“Too cold. My breath's freezing on my eyelashes, and 
my fingers are about to break off. Come on, I want to get 
home.” 

It seemed miles to the cabin. When they finally reached 
it they were too weary and numb to take off their things. 
Ma had to unbutton their coats and peel off the frozen 



A White World 


235 


gunny sacks. And when their toes and fingers began to 
warm up, my, how they hurt! 

Pa said the queer little song bird must have been a water 
ouzel. He put aside the partly finished sled and began that 
very day to make them each a pair of skis, quartersawing 
and turning the wood carefully. When those were done, 
Margie and Tom could walk on top of the snow. Pa cut 
them each a long pole to balance with and after some prac' 
tice they could go almost anywhere—skim down the hills 
like the wind and climb up again by tacking, which meant 
Zigzagging. 

The snowshoes Pa made for himself were fully eleven 
feet long. He greased them well and tried them out thor' 
oughly before he undertook the trip to Hot Sulphur Springs. 
Several other families had moved into Middle Park and 
once a month one of the men went to Georgetown for the 
mail. He had agreed to bring the Crawford mail too. Ma 
hated to have Pa go, but he said it would be easier traveling 
in winter than in summer and he’d be back in no time. So 
early one morning he struck off. 

The first week in December was gone. Ma had Tom 
carry in a piece of frozen elk and lay it on the woodbox to 
thaw so she could make mince-meat. The smell of raisins 
and spices was a reminder that Christmas was not far off. 
Tom humped in one corner of the cabin with his back to 
everybody, whittling on something. Ma sat in the low 
rocker by the window and took fine stitches on a bit of 
white which she hid under her apron when she got up to 
stir the mincemieat. 




236 


The Shining Mountains 


Margie perched on the edge of the table by the front 
window and started a boot pincushion for Ma like the one 
she had seen on the tree at the Sunday school last year. She 
had to cut two boots of cardboard just alike, cover them 
each with goods, and whip them together. Then she tacked 
a cord crisscross up the front so the boot would appear to 
have lacings. Pins could be stuck all around the edge. She 
kept her blue sketch bag handy so she could hide her work 
if Ma came too close. 

It seemed to her as though the Little Silver Bear ought 
to be in that bag. Strange how it had got lost. Remembering 
the Little Bear made her think of Running Whirlwind and 
Wasani and things that had happened last summer. There’d 
been something mysterious about those Arapahoe boys. 
Why had they ever risked coming to Ute country? Why 
had they emptied Ma’s trunk, and left so suddenly? 

She got up to hunt a needle and some thread on the shelf. 
The old daguerreotype confronted her. She carried it to 
the table, propping it where she could visit with the pic' 
ture girl. 

“Cinthy,” she whispered, “It's the strangest thing about 
you, too. How did you ever get in with all those beads and 
looking glasses? And you and Pony—goodness sake, I never 
dreamed! You’d know about Pony’s map. Did Thurston 
really get it?” 

Cinthy kept smiling but gave no answer. Margie bent 
closer over her work as the early winter dusk settled down. 

‘Time to stop now,” said Ma. “It’s getting too dark to 



A White World 


237 


Tom sidled toward his own private box with his hands 
behind him and chanted, 

*7 know something 1 wont tell , 

Three little Injuns in a peanut shell!” 

Christmas was in the air. Margie didn’t feel very Christ' 
masy inside. How could she away off here in Yampa Valley? 
No jolly sleigh bells jingling on the roads. No roads even. 
No little church in the lane to hold a Christmas tree and a 
rustling happy crowd of people. 

However, when Pa came back from Hot Sulphur bringing 
precious letters and papers and two exciting looking pack' 
ages from Grandma, she did begin to feel a tingle of antici' 
pation. One package was put away on the shelf to be the 
object of delightful conjectures till the proper time came to 
peer into it. But the other Ma opened at once, for it was 
marked “Popcorn 6? Sundries.” 

“Goody! Now we can have popcorn balls!” cried Tom. 

He and Pa went up on the hill and cut a small thick' 
furred spruce tree. Ma and the others dressed it in snowy 
popcorn strings and paper cornucopias filled with taffy. To 
add to the decorations Margie got out the bright red and 
yellow leaves she had pressed last fall. On Christmas Eve 
the tree was very brave and gay. Its fragrance filled the 
whole cabin. Now it was time for the presents. 

Pa lifted a mysterious package that had been hidden 
among the branches and with a wide grin handed it to 
Margie. A new sketch book, a box of colors, a real camel’s 
hair brush! 

“Oh! Oh!” she gasped. 



238 


The Shining Mountains 


The family crowded around, as delighted as she. “I 
wanted to give it to you right off when I fetched it with 
the last load of provisions,” said Pa, “but Ma thought best 
to wait.” 

So bursting full of happiness was Margie that she could 
only stutter. All the rest of the evening she felt as though 
there were a bright warm candle burning inside her. She 
had another gift besides, a collar which Ma had trimmed 
with featherstitching. There were surprises for everyone. 
For Tom, the sled—all finished—and a brand new knife 
with three blades. For Danny, a homemade jumping jack 
whose joints jiggled wondrously. The boot pincushion was 
just what Ma had been wanting! And Pa liked the hat 
marker Margie had embroidered for him so well that he 
had her fasten it on the leather headband right away. Tom 
had carved a miniature boat for each of them out of cotton- 
wood bark. 

“To hold pins or nails,” he said, beaming modestly at the 
family’s praise. 

Grandma had sent the young folks a pencil apiece, a pair 
of warm mittens, and some pretty colored pictures. 

That night when the Crawfords made cheer in a lonely 
land was one long to be remembered. Margie, opening the 
door to let in Tobe, looked up at the stars through the 
frosty air. How close they hung! And she thought there 
was one larger and brighter than the others—surely the 
Star of Bethlehem. The cat padded in to curl up behind the 
stove. 

Margie shut the door and dropped down on the elk skin 



A White World 


239 


at Ma’s feet. Outside snowy mountains and stillness. But 
inside, Christmas and singing and Pa’s deep voice reading on 
and on, “And there were in the same country shepherds 
abiding in the field keeping watch over their flock by 
night.” . . . 

On New Year’s Day Margie started a diary. Pa had 
given her a little red book, and Tom a little blue one. She 
resolved to have something interesting to write every single 
night. This was not always easy for not much happened 
that could be called eventful. The January days dragged 
by with wearisome sameness. There was the ordinary rou' 
tine of household duties—cooking and patching, washing 
and ironing. 

Margie patched when Ma set her at it, pushing the needle 
back and forth with impatient fingers while she kept an eye 
on the window through which the white world beckoned 
her to come skiing. Usually the stitches were far too strag' 
gling to suit Ma and had to be taken out and done over. 

“If your grandmother should see them! And you almost 
a young lady!” 

Margie made her first light bread under Ma’s careful 
direction. That went down in the diary as one item of 
importance. 

Tom soon grew tired of writing in his blue book and 
gave it up. “All I do is chop wood one day and clean out 
the cow shed the next,” he grumbled. “I can remember 
that.” 

School lessons were not neglected. Pa gave Tom and 




240 


The Shining Mountains 


Margie examples to do. He stood them up and had them 
spell, picking out words from the Rocky Mountain News 
and from Frank Leslie's Weekly which he had brought in 
at Christmas. He set them copies to write over and over 
again: “Procrastination is the thief of time. 1 '’ “The chains 
of habit are too slight to be felt until they are too strong 
to be broken.” 

Many an hour Margie worked with her beloved colors. 
She painted the knob of hill on the other side of the river 
as she remembered it with a circlet of autumn red, and made 
a try at the mountain across the west end of the valley, which 
Pa had named Elk Mountain because a band of elk were 
wintering on its far slope. 

“Everything I do is dauby,” she sighed. “I wish I had 
someone to show me!” 

Ma peered at the row of pictures tacked across the cabin 
wall. “I think they’re pretty good, don’t you, Jimmy?” 

“They look first rate to me,” Pa agreed. “I’d like our 
Margie to have painting lessons. It would be just the thing 
if she could make a visit to Missouri.” 

“Oh, Pa!” 

“But that’ll have to wait,” he amended with a shake of 
the head. “We’ve got to raise cattle first and sell them to 
make money. Maybe in two or three years—” 

Two or three years. An eternity! 

Toward the first of February Pa took a trip to the winter 
range to see how the cattle were getting along. He blacked 
under his eyes with charcoal and wore Ma’s heavy green 
veil to keep from getting snowblind. While he was gone, 



A White World 


241 


the snow piled so heavily on the roof that it had to be 
shoveled off twice. 

On the seventeenth of February Tom let the ax slip and 
cut his toe and had to stay in with his foot bandaged up for 
nearly a whole week. He amused himself by playing “camp" 
ing out” with Danny, draping the tarpaulin over the bench 
for a tent, and pretending that the water pail in the comer 
was a spring. When he grew tired of that, Margie went 
outdoors and began to model something in the snow where 
he could watch her from the window. “Guess what Fm 
making,” she called. 

“A Noah’s Ark,” he shouted back. “Make the animals 
too.” 

“What’s this?” she asked a few moments later after a 
breathless interlude of pushing and patting and rolling. 

“Giraffe,” he giggled. “Anyone could tell that by the 
broomstick neck. And that’s an elephant. Stick another 
piece of kindling in to make the trunk longer.” 

“That’s all Fm going to do now,” said Margie, taking 
off her wet mittens and shaking her cold fingers. 

“Oh, make a bear,” he mouthed through the glass. 

“All right, just one more then.” 

She made a short heavy body, added a thick head, and 
stuck on rounding ears. But the sun came out and soon all 
the statues had melted into shapeless knobs. The giraffe had 
lost his neck and the bear looked no more like a bear than 
had Running Whirlwind’s little silver charm. 

A thaw had set in. Each day the surface snow melted 
enough to freeze at night into a crust of ice that stayed hard 



242 


The Shining Mountains 


and firm for two or three hours the following morning. 

"Whee, I can walk on top of it!" she shouted. "I can 
even jump and it won't break through!" She danced up the 
hill and along the ridge. Lifting her arms like wings, she 
raced for the valley. It felt so good to run. Her feet were 
as light as feathers, and she could go right over the crests 
of the tallest drifts! 

Before she knew it she was away down the river by the 
Frenchman’s camp where Pony had once taken them. There 
was the ledge by which the unfortunate gold seekers had 
put up their tent, and all around were white hills that 
humped into the intense blue of the sky like the snow crea- 
tures she had modeled around her Noah’s ark. They looked 
to be asleep, with their heads between their paws, waiting 
for spring. 

Suddenly a thin piping note floated to her from the 
branches of the cottonwoods. Hardly crediting her ears, 
she searched the boughs overhead with eager eyes. 

"I was sure," she spoke aloud, 'sure I heard—’’ 

A bird with a rusty red breast hopped into view, preened 
his feathers as if from long flight, and cocking his head 
down remarked, "Chiriup! Chiriup!" 

"It is! It is!" Her voice skipped with gladness. She 
danced a jig right there on the snow. "Welcome home, Mr. 
Robin! I guess you know spring’s on the way! And when 
it does come I’ve a feeling ’most anything can happen!" 



Chapter Eighteen 
THE YAMPA'S CHILDREN 

“You sure it was a robin, Sis?” 

Tom stood on one foot in the doorway, peering wistfully 
into the branches of the big cottonwood by the creek. 
“Maybe it was just a flicker.” 

“I guess I know a robin!” 

“They sound sort of alike sometimes,” persisted the boy. 
“The flickers have been makin' a fuss all day up in the scrub 
oaks. Seemed as if they were tryin' awful hard to sing.” 

“This was a robin. He hopped so close I could see his 
red breast. Pm afraid he’s made a mistake and come too 
early. Oh, Ma, will he freeze tonight?” 

“He'll find a warm place in some spruce tree,” said her 
mother. “Spring 'll soon be here.” 

Spring! It was only a whisper under the ice of the creek, 
and a promise in the swelling of the quaking aspen buds. 

On the heels of the thaw came a heavy snow. For a night 
and a day the wind howled around the cabin in a most 
disagreeable temper, as much as to say, “Maybe you people 
think winter is nearly over. Brr'rrrr! I'll show you!” 

But Margie, tramping along behind Pa when he went to 
feed the cow, made a face at the storm. “You can't fool 
me! The pussywillows are almost out!” She broke a bou- 
quet of long slender willow shoots and stuck them in a can 
of water. The heat of the house soon made the fat brown 
sheaths burst and the silver pink catkins appear. 


243 


244 


The Shining Mountains 


“See, Danny, just like a lot of soft kittens!” 

The storm sneaked back to the peaks and the sun came 
out again. How eagerly the Crawfords watched for each 
sign of the changing season! Margie found more and more 
of interest to chronicle in her diary. On the fourth of 
March Tom heard a blackbird, and that same day Margie 
discovered some tiny fresh green plants around the iron 
spring. A few brown patches began to show on the low 
hills. 

“Ay Jonathan, T m glad to see those!” rumbled Pa. “The 
cow’s ’most out of hay.” 

“We can feed her what corn meal’s left,” said Ma, “till 
the grass begins to grow.” 

Yes, the hills were waking up after their long sleep. Some 
days were so warm Margie didn’t need a coat outdoors. The 
ice on the streams melted. Soda Creek began to rise, and 
the voice of the river grew louder. Wherever the snow 
vanished, sprigs of green came into sight. On the twenty' 
fifth of March, Margie’s fourteenth birthday, she went for 
a walk, sinking almost to her shoetops in the spongy earth. 
She didn’t care, for she found the first flowers—miniature 
white blossoms no bigger than the head of a pin, each with 
a dark speck of center. They grew in a cluster the siz,e of 
her thumb on one side of a short stem that barely lifted 
them above the mud. “Salt and pepper flowers,” she called 
them. Later she learned they were turkey peas. 

“You darlings!” she whispered, and loved them more than 
gorgeous summer blossoms because they looked so brave 
thrusting up beside a snowbank. The buttercups appeared 



The Yampa’s Children 


245 


at almost the same time, golden heads snuggled sleepily 
against the ground. One day the flat was only a drab strip 
of earth; the next it was a fragrant yellow carpet. 

“Doesn’t the air smell nice?” said Margie. “Come on, 
Tom, let’s go up on the hill and see if we can’t find some 
more flowers in those bare spots.” 

The snow was still so deep in places they,had to use skis 
to reach the ridge, but once there, they cached their skis 
and went poking about afoot. The rocks were warm, and 
the trickles of moisture that threaded down their sides had 
made the green and orange lichens as brilliant as fresh paint. 

“Chipmunk!” they both cried at once. 

There he was on the limb of a sarvice bush, his small 
sharp pixie face peering at them from the mazie of twigs. 
He took time to chatter a saucy remark before he scam' 
pered down into a hole with impertinent jerks of his tail. 

“And there’s Grandpa Woodchuck too!” shrilled Tom. 
“Howdy, old fellow!” 

The ’chuck blinked solemnly down from the warm ledge 
where he was stretched out taking his first spring sun bath. 

“Must feel good to get the kinks out of your joints after 
sleepin’ all winter!” 

“Let’s not bother him,” said Margie. “He’s so comfort' 
able. Let’s find some rocks with lichens on ’em to take home 
and set by the door. There aren’t any flowers up here yet.” 

She used her ski pole to pry up a chunk of pudding stone 
that had weathered from the big slab and was half buried 
in the soil. But she let it drop back in a hurry. “Tom! 
Come here!” 



246 


The Shining Mountains 


“What’s the matter?” 

“Under that rock. Look!” 

Excitedly she pried up the slab again. There was a tan' 
gled gray'brown mass that wriggled a little. 

“Great gee'ranium! It’s snakes!” 

They stooped to examine the ball of tails and heads. “Just 
harmless baby garter snakes,” said Margie. “Must be twelve 
or fifteen. They haven’t waked up yet.” 

“Let’s take ’em and show Ma!” 

“All right. We can hang ’em over my ski pole and carry 
it between us. Here, you hold that end.” 

One by one they disentangled the reptiles, took them by 
their cold limp tails, and strung them across the long stick. 
Most of the snakes were very obliging and stayed draped, 
but two or three, livelier than the rest, kept falling off. 
Margie and Tom had to stop and pick them up a dosen 
times before they got to the cabin. 

“Oh, Ma! Look what we found!” 

Mrs. Crawford, expecting to see a new kind of flower or 
perhaps a twig in leaf, came to the door with Danny at her 
skirts. At sight of the twitching burden on the pole, her 
smile frose to an expression of horror. 

“Mercy on us!” She grabbed the baby. “Take those 
snakes away from here! Take them straight away!” 

“But Ma, they’re kind of pretty—” 

“Take them away this instant!” 

Ma’s tone sounded too cross to meddle with. The two 
were obliged to carry their finds down by the pond and 
dump them in the rushes. 



The Yampa’s Children 


247 


“Maybe they’ll stay around till they grow up,” Tom said 
hopefully. 

Pa laughed when he heard about the snakes, but after a 
look at Mas set face he abruptly changed the subject. He 
had been down the valley that day to see how the snow 
was melting. “It’s terrible slow.” He shook his head. “I 
fed the finish of the hay this evening. And that com meal 
isn’t going to last Lil very long. I’ll be mighty thankful 
when the grass begins to grow.” 

“It won’t be long now,” encouraged Ma. 

“When the grass begins to grow.” That became the 
undercurrent of all their thoughts. Would those white 
ridges of ice never dissolve from the meadows? To the iim 
patient family the season seemed to have come to a standstill. 

Yet, overhead things were happening. Long silky catkins 
shimmered on the faintly greening aspen limbs, and made 
distant groves gleam like gossamer. Through the crystal air 
came the throb of bird wings. In the depths of the blue 
appeared tiny black wedges that grew larger as they dropped 
toward the river—wild geese, whose strident honkings min' 
gled with the loud quack of ducks settling on the pond. 
Blackbirds teetered on the cottonwoods, trilling a gladsome 
symphony that lasted from dawn till dark. On the first of 
April the sand'hill cranes flew out of the south, long legs 
trailing behind them, long necks stretching this way and 
that. 

And on the fifth of April the cow ran out on the hill for 
the first time. The grass had started to come! To celebrate, 
the Crawfords unpacked the flag that had been put away 



248 


The Shining Mountains 


during the winter, and ran it up the pole. The bunting eased 
gently into the breeze as if it were glad to feel the sun again, 
and the family cheered. 

“Geranium! Betcha that fresh green grass tastes just like 
custard pie to Lil,"*** rejoiced Tom. “I’d most like to try it 
myself.'” 

“Pony Wilson told me about a plant called bears’ cabbage 
that is good to eat,” remembered Margie. “He said it had 
sprangly leaves and a flower that was like a fuzzy purplish 
ball.” 

The bears’ cabbage was easy to identify and they gath" 
ered a whole pailful, being careful not to get other plants 
mixed in. It shrank when cooked till there was only a 
saucerful. “That all there is?” said the disappointed Tom. 
“Say, I could eat a bushel!” 

They pulled lots of little wild onions too. These couldn’t 
get mixed up with anything else! 

“Almost time to plant garden,” declared Ma one morn" 
ing, getting out the packages of seed that Pa had brought 
in the wagon last fall. 

“Ground’s still too wet to dig,” said Pa. 

“The roof’s dry.” Margie had a sudden inspiration. 
“Why can’t we plant radishes and lettuce there?” 

“On top of the house?” demanded Tom. 

“Why not? There’s plenty of dirt and the roof’s almost 
flat.” 

Ma thought they’d better not try it. “You go to digging 
around up there and the dirt ’ll cave in,” she warned. 

“Tut,” said Pa. “We won’t dig deep.” And he climbed 




This was fun—planting the garden on the house 





























































































The Yampa's Children 


251 


the ladder to rake the soil. Tom and Margie dropped the 
seeds, patting them down with the hoe. This was fun— 
planting the garden on the house! 

“Wisht the roof was bigger and we could make the whole 
garden here,” said Tom. “How long ’ll it be before the 
radishes are ready to eat?” 

“Not very long,” Pa chuckled. “From the looks of those 
black clouds I think it’s going to rain. That ’ll give ’em a 
good start.” 

Thunder rumbled across the hills. The first thunder of 
the year. As exciting as the long roll of drums! For so many 
months the Crawfords had heard only the dry whisper of 
snow and the wail of the winter wind. Now the rocks 
shouted echoes and the rain came down with a rush of noise 
like the beat of a million gray wings. Great wet drops 
slanted across the windows of the cabin and spattered on 
the outside walls. 

“Fm glad I’ve got a roof over me!” Margie hugged her' 
self. “The water’s just pouring down.” 

“Sa'ay,” Tom felt of the top of his head, “some of it’s 
leakin’ in here! Where’s the bucket?” 

“Leaking over here, too,” said Pa. “I’ll put this pan 
under it.” 

Spat spat, spicXety spat drummed the rain faster and faster 
on the tin. 

“Ooooo!” Margie jumped. “It’s raining down my neck. 
I’ll get the stew kettle.” 

“Mercy on us! The whole house is leaking!” cried Ma. 
“The roof’s just like a sieve. That garden!” 



252 


The Shining Mountains 


Margie, who had suggested the garden, felt very crest' 
fallen as she dashed here and there with pots and pans. 
Meanwhile Pa and Ma rolled up the already mud'Spotted 
bedding and covered it with the tarpaulin. 

“Oh, dear!” she panted. “I didn’t know a little raking ’d 
make the roof act like this!” 

“Likely it would’ve leaked anyhow with all this water,” 
said Pa, draping his jumper over the sack of flour. “Ay 
Jonathan, it’s getting worse. We might as well be out' 
doors.” 

The only dry place in the cabin was under the table. 
Danny and Tobe were first to take refuge there, but were 
soon joined by the rest of the family. 

“A pretty how'de'do!” scolded Ma. “A garden, indeed!” 

For half an hour the rain pelted down. Though it made 
a muddy mess of the cabin, it did some good, for it hurried 
the melting of the snow in the valley. Drifts that had been 
as tall as a house miraculously disappeared, and in their 
places sprang fragile yellow dogtooth violets. Everywhere 
tender shoots of green came peeking through the carpet of 
matted dry grass and last year’s leaves. Here under the 
bushes were spring beauties, like a sprinkling of pink stars 
on slender red stems, and there at the hill’s edge were clusters 
of sweet early bluebells, bluer than the deep Colorado sky. 

In a couple of weeks the ground was dry enough for Pa 
to dig a real garden. He and Ma selected a spot a short dis' 
tance up the gulch where they thought frost would not 
come. First the sagebrush had to be grubbed out. Pa didn’t 
know whether anything would grow in this soil or not, but 



The Yampa’s Children 


253 


he had laid in different kinds of seeds to try—turnips, carrots, 
peas, beets, watermelons, squash, and even a few apple and 
peach seeds. He worked with the shovel and the hoe, paus' 
ing now and then to stoop and crumble the fragrant black 
loam in his fingers. “Looks rich and finer said Pa. 

Tom made the rows while Ma and Margie dropped the 
seed—oh, so carefully! Even Danny helped to tramp the soil 
over them. While they were busy in the garden, a visitor 
came to the cabin. The Crawfords didn’t know it till they 
trailed down the gulch at dinner time and heard a noise in 
the house. 

“What’s that?” said Ma sharply. 

Margie reached the door a bound ahead of everybody else. 
There in the middle of the room lay a great brown creature 
nearly as big as Lil. He was chewing thoughtfully on a 
dented tin plate. 

“Jokum!” 

The elk had come home after a whole long winter away! 
He had grown so much Margie hardly knew him, but he 
still had the same mischievous bright brown eyes. The faim 
ily crowded into the doorway. He got up and shook his 
head proudly as much as to say, “See my spike horns? 
Aren’t they wonderful?” 

“You old pie biter!” Tom rushed to throw his arms 
around the shaggy neck. 

“Careful, son,” cautioned Pa. “He may be scary now.” 

But the elk was as tame as ever. He felt right at home 
and the looks of the rooms showed he’d been waiting for 
the family some time. Nobody had the heart to scold! 



254 


The Shining Mountains 


“Isn’t he smart to come back?” bragged Tom. “After 
he’s been with the wild herd too.” 

“What makes this horns so fussy?” said Margie. 

“They’re in the velvet stage,” Pa explained. “The rascal 
will probably rub them on everything we have.” 

“Isn’t he the nicest!” crooned Tom. 

“Yes, Jokum, you are nice,” laughed Ma, giving him a 
pat, “but you don’t fit in a house. Shoo out of here, now, so 
I can take stock of the damage.” 

The elk was soon a regular member of the family again. 
He slept beside the west wall of the cabin in a hollow of 
soft dirt. Every morning before sun-up he clattered off to 
the meadows. But if Tom called, “Here, Jokum!” he would 
come bounding. He liked to follow Margie and Tom wher- 
ever they went, and when they played tag or hide-and-seek 
with Danny, he leaped and swerved around them and tried 
to play too. 

Pa decided it was high time to bring the cattle and horses 
from the winter range; so he set out one morning for the 
Hole. On the eleventh of May he returned with Dave, 
Uncle Henry, and the stock. Margie and Tom climbed on 
top of the cabin to watch them come down the hill. The 
river was too high to cross that night. It was not quite so 
high next morning and the men managed to swim the herd 
in safety. 

“There’s Spy and Ponto!” cried Tom. 

The modest little black and white shepherd paddled to 
shore, shook herself, and came wriggling and grinning to 
greet the family. Ponto lurched out of the water, a lanky 



The Yampa’s Children 


255 


yellow streak, and hurled his wet excited self upon his 
friends, yelping like three dogs. 

“Heah you, Ponto!” chuckled Dave. “That ain' no way 
to act!” But he added, “Reckon he feels like jubilatin' jes’ 
like dis heah niggah! Great day in de mawnin'! Ain't I 
happy!” 

They were all happy that night, as they sat around the 
stove and talked. Ma, because the family was together 
again and there would once more be an abundance of milk 
and butter; Pa, because the stock had wintered through so 
well; and Uncle Henry and Dave, because the burden of 
responsibility was lifted from their shoulders. Only one 
member of the household found the cabin crowded. Tobe, 
the big gray cat, set the boisterous Ponto in his place with 
a smart rap of one paw; then stalked out of the house. 
Margie, hunting for him next morning, found him on the 
rocky knoll where he had lived last summer and where 
he apparently intended to take up his solitary abode again. 

While she was on the hill she looked down the valley 
and saw a slow cavalcade moving up the deeply grooved 
trail. The Indians were returning to their summer hunting 
grounds. She ran to the cabin to break the news. “The 
Utes are coming! Let’s get out the biscuit!” 

When the Indians straggled into view on the slope above 
the springs, who should be with them but Pony Wilson 
and his faithful burro, Music. 

The Yampa Valley was calling her children home again. 

“Howdy! Howdy!” The old prospector danced the 
laughing Danny into his arms. “Knowed you wouldn't 



256 


The Shining Mountains 


fergit me! Looky here, little feller, what I brung ye!” He 
fished in his pocket for a handful of rattlesnake buttons. 
His eyes sparkled under their shaggy brows as he looked 
about him. “I come back fer one more try at that gold. 
Figgered to go to Breckenridge this year, but shoo! The 
old Yampy—somehow I can’t keep away from her.” 

“We haven’t forgot about helping you hunt your mine,” 
piped Tom. “I was thinkin’ I might go and find it today. 
Geranium, I’m goin’ to have me a silver-mounted saddle with 
my share. What you goin’ to buy first?” 

“Wal, reckon I’ll git me one o’ them b’iled shirts to start 
on,” mused the prospector. 

Colorow and his renegades were not with the Indian band, 
for which everyone was thankful. Yarmony was glad to 
see his white friends. He’d thought sure the heavy snow 
would get them. Pawinta had made a bow and arrow for 
Tom and Singing Grass brought Ma a handful of creamy 
pulp on a smooth clean rock. 

“What is it?” asked Margie, sniffing. “It smells like 
quaking aspen wood, sweet and bitter.” 

The squaw nodded vigorously, showing by signs how 
she had scraped the juicy white pulp from the trunk of a 
young tree after peeling off the outer bark. 

“Heap good!” she urged and dipped in with one finger. 

Ma took the pulp to be polite and gave the Utes biscuit. 
They squatted in front of the cabin. After a lengthy visit 
they journeyed on to the mesa to pitch their tepees. It 
seemed good to see the friendly smoke curling up from their 
fires again. 



The Yampa’s Children 


257 


Pony made temporary camp with the Indians till the river 
should get low enough to wade, but he spent most of his 
time riding Danny on Music, pausing often to lie down and 
drink from the iron spring. 

“Ain’t no water in the world better ’n that thar,” he 
proclaimed. “Been thirsty ever since I left. Reckon shore, 
I’ll find the gold this time. And mebby,” he squinted into 
the sun, “you know, I got a cur’ous feelin’ little Billy may 
come walkin’ in here some one of these days lookin’ fer me.’’ 

Little Billy. Lost twelve years. Poor Pony! 

The valley, which for so many months had been hushed 
under white drifts, now hummed with activity. Every dawn 
new birds joined the joyful chorus in the cottonwoods. 
Every sunny noon the buzz of bees grew louder among the 
chokecherry blooms. The leaves on the quaking aspens 
were the size of squirrels' ears, big enough to make a small 
chatter as the breeze wandered through them. 

One morning, less than a week after the arrival of the 
Utes, Pa brought in two horses and persuaded Ma to ride 
with him up Soda Creek to hunt for a cow that had strayed. 
Danny begged to go and was boosted up in front of Ma. 
When they had gone, Margie flew at the task of wash' 
ing the breakfast dishes. Tom, mindful of his mother’s part' 
ing admonition to “be a good boy and help your sister with 
the cleaning up,’’ dawdled with the dishtowel, between 
energetic twangs at his Jew’s harp, and thankfully retired 
down the trail when Margie said, “That’s all but the kettles 
now.’’ For Uncle Henry and Dave were building a big cor' 
ral in the flat and he was afraid he might miss something! 



The Shining Mountains 


258 

Margie scoured the remaining pots and hung them on 
their nails in a neat row. “Now to catch up with my 
diary,” she thought, as she took the small red leather book 
from its shelf and carried it to the door, intending to sit on 
the step and write. But she didn't even open the diary. 
She just stood and stared at something on the step. Some- 
thing that gleamed in the sun. A familiar knobby chunk of 
metal. 

“Why,” she gasped, “it's the Little Silver Bear!” 





Chapter Nineteen 
THE MAP OF THE GOLD 

The long'lost Little Silver Bear! 

Margie snatched it up. It was real! How had it come 
there? Tom had gone out that door only a minute ago and 
he hadn’t seen it. Someone must have left it on the step 
while she’d been clattering the kettles. A buckskin thong 
dangled from it. Winding that on her fingers, she dashed 
around the cabin. Not a soul. The dogs had gone with Pa 
and Ma, so they weren’t here to help her. Jokum was down 
by the iron spring. She saw his ears cocked toward a clump 
of sarvice berry bushes on the little hill and she made for 
that, long braids bobbing, feet stumbling over her apron. 

A sudden scramble in the leaves, a pair of laughing black 
eyes, a flash of white teeth. “How!” 

If a stalk of sagebrush had turned to a human being be" 
fore her eyes, Margie wouldn’t have been a speck more 
astonished. 

“Running Whirlwind! Where’d you come from?” 

The boy leaped out of hiding and chuckled. “Come long 
way over mountains.” 

“Where’s your horse?” 

“Too much snow on range to bring horse. Bring Little 
Bear.” 

“B'but—” Margie blinked to make sure she wasn’t just 
dreaming. Was this long lean lad in buckskin really Run" 
259 


26 o 


The Shining Mountains 


ning Whirlwind? She looked from him to the Little Bear 
and back again. “Where on earth did you get this? 1 ’ 

“Wasani take Little Bear when we go away.” 

“But I had it after that. I know I did! I showed it to 
Colorow!” 

“Wasani slip back after dark. Take Little Bear because 
he think our bad luck start when I give it to you. We not 
gone very far. My leg was hurting. He not tell me he get 
Little Bear till we are many sleeps away.” 

“That was the night Pa and Uncle Henry and Dave got 
in,” remembered Margie. “I reckon Wasani sneaked in the 
cabin while we were all outside to meet the wagons. Good' 
ness sake!” She sat down on the ground to collect her giddy 
senses. “Where’s Wasani?” 

“He not come this time. Little Bear and me bring this.” 
He carefully took a torn, yellowed piece of paper from the 
pocket of his broad leather belt and handed it to her. 

Wondering, she unfolded it. The paper was so old it felt 
soft like wormout muslin, and the edges of it crumbled in 
her fingers. She frowned at the faint pencil lines on the 
wrinkled surface. “What is it?” 

“The map.” 

“What map?” 

“The map of the gold.” 

She sat gating at it foolishly. The map of the gold— 
could this be Pony Wilson’s map? 

“Oh, where’d you find it?” 

“Elk find it, that time he get in the cabin and try to eat 
the picture ” 



The Map of the Gold 


261 


"You mean it was really in the old daguerreotype? Then 
Thurston never got it after all, for that’s just where Pony 
put it!” 

Running Whirlwind went on to explain how Wasani 
had seen the paper when he grabbed the picture from the 
elk and had hidden it in his shirt. 

"How’d he know about Pony’s map?” 

"Many things I have to tell you.” The boy folded his 
long legs in the grass beside her. She could hardly yet be" 
lieve this was Running Whirlwind, could hardly believe 
what her ears were hearing about the map—Pony Wilson’s 
map! She studied the paper with eager interest but could 
make head nor tail of it. 

“Oh, do tell me!” she cried, settling her skirts impatiently. 

"A new man is at the trading post,” he began, choosing 
his words slowly. "All winter I have lived there. His wife 
took trouble to teach me how to speak English better.” 

"You do speak better!” Margie nodded a decisive head. 
"But go on. What happened to Clee Morgan, the other 
trader?” 

"I tell you about that pretty soon. Now I tell you a story.” 
The laughter was gone from his face. He fixed grave eyes 
upon the far hills and began: 

"Many snows ago, a man had a trading post here on the 
Yampa River. He was a man who spoke with a forked 
tongue.” 

"Thurston,” said Margie. "Pony told me about him.” 

The Arapahoe nodded. "One time a prospector with a 
little boy came into the valley to hunt a mine. The trader 



262 


The Shining Mountains 


knew there was a map to the gold, and tried every way 
to get it. A bad Ute was a friend of his. ‘Here is a big 
box of beads and looking glasses,’ Thurston told him. ‘I 
give it to you for a present, and you do something for me. 
Go and get the little black book from the prospector. When 
you bring it to me I give you something else.’ The Ute did 
not know what a book was, but the trader showed him it 
was square shape—so big—and he told him it had black 
buckskin outside. 

“So the bad Indian sneaked behind the prospector one 
day and knocked him down and felt in his pockets. He 
found what looked like little black book. And he thought 
he steal the rest of white man’s things for himself. First 
he take little bag. It had yellow rocks in it, and a big grizzly 
claw. That claw made him afraid, and he could not drop 
the bag quick enough. He trembled because he knew the 
Bear was protecting the prospector, and he ran to his lodge. 
When he looked down at his hands he was still carrying 
the little black book. He threw it in with the presents the 
trader had given him and pounded on the top. Then he got 
on his horse with the box and whipped the pony. It was 
hard to carry the box when he was riding so fast, but he 
was greedy and did not want to lose the beads and looking 
glasses. He made camp in Middle Park where he thought 
the spirit of the Bear could not find him. 

“That night before dark he climbed a hill to look around 
and saw Arapahoe war party. He sure the Bear sent Ara' 
pahoes after him. He hide the box in the spruce needles 
under big tree where he think he come back and get it some 



The Map of the Gold 


263 


time. But he never come back, for he was a coward and 
he knew that even his own people, the Utes, not like him." 

Margie drew a quavering breath. "So the box stayed hid 
till I found it," she said in an awed tone. "What became of 
the prospector’s little boy?" 

Running Whirlwind’s fingers piayed with a dry twig, 
shredding the fiber under the bark. "When the trader had 
waited long time for the bad Ute to bring him the map of 
the gold, he went to the Indian’s lodge to learn why he 
not come. There he saw fresh pony tracks headed east up 
the valley. The Ute had run away. 

"Then the trader hurried to the prospector’s tepee. He 
found the man on the ground—dead, he thought. And there 
was the little boy beside him, crying. Thurston began to be 
afraid, for he knew this prospector was good friend of the 
Ute tribe. When the Utes came and found their friend 
lying there, and saw the trader’s footprints they would think 
the trader had killed him and would try to take his hair. 
But Thurston was not so mean that he wanted to leave little 
papoose there. So he took him on his horse and escaped to 
Middle Park, where he joined Arapahoes and went over the 
range with them." 

"Poor little baby!" murmured Margie. "After that what 
became of him?" 

Running Whirlwind tossed the twig at a chipmunk. "The 
plains know much they do not tell," he answered slowly. 
"The man Thurston changed his name, traveled north— 
away off—and stayed for many snows. Then he came back 
and traveled south. He stopped to trade with some Apaches 



264 


The Shining Mountains 


and saw the bad Ute that he had bribed to get the map a 
long time ago. The Ute told him what he had done with the 
little black book from the prospector’s pocket. 

“Now the trader was very happy, for he believed he could 
dig up the box and find the map. Then he could get much 
gold. So many war parties were in Middle Park that sum' 
mer and the next that he not like to go there; so he built a 
little trading post and waited. Last spring when snow 
melted, he was ready to cross the mountains when a sick' 
ness came upon him. He think he send two Arapahoe boys 
to get the map and bring it to him.” 

“You and Wasani,” supplied Margie. 

“He drew us a picture to show where the trails went and 
where the bad Ute said he had buried the box. He was 
drawing it for us on a piece of buckskin that day I saw you 
in Denver City.” 

“When we came to have our tintypes made?” frowned 
Margie. “I didn’t see any white man except Mr. Humkins 
and Clee Morgan.” 

An odd look came to Running Whirlwind’s face, but he 
went on, “Remember how the wind blew everything when 
you opened the window? It blew that little piece of buck' 
skin out of my hands. I grabbed what I thought was it, but 
when I got outside it was the wrong piece. We not like to 
tell the trader because he very cross. We come back after 
you go and ask the picture man. He say he wrap your tin' 
types in a piece of buckskin with writing on it. So we 
find your camp and hide and see your mother put the tintypes 
in the trunk. When it get night—” 



The Map of the Gold 


265 


“Forever more!” exclaimed Margie. “So you're the ones 
that stole our pictures!" 

He smiled ruefully. “I bring them back now." He took a 
buckskin packet out of the pocket in his belt and gave it to 
her. She opened it, and there were the small heavy squares 
of tin which were their pictures—hers and Tom's and Dan- 
ny's. Three anxious little faces. 

The Crawfords had been pretty solemn that day, for who 
knew but they'd be scalped when they got in the mountains? 
It seemed ages since those pictures had been taken. Tom's 
round freckled face had begun to lengthen out and Danny 
had lost some of his baby chubbiness, and she—why, she 
was fourteen—almost grown up! Wouldn't Ma be pleased 
to get the tintypes back! Margie examined the smudgy 
markings on the buckskin wrapping. “Was this the drawing 
the trader made to show you about the box?" 

“Not all of it. The part we needed most had been cut off." 

“That's so. Ma used it to wrap the pictures she sent to 
Missouri so they wouldn't get scratched. What did you do 
then?" 

“We thought maybeso we find the box anyhow, so we 
traveled up Clear Creek and over mountains to Middle Park. 
The drawing showed us that much was right, and we knew 
the box was under a big spruce tree by a trail. We hunted 
long time. Then we saw wagon tracks and came where you 
had camped and saw a hole where you had dug up some' 
thing. We knew it must be the box." 

“Why didn't you come right straight and tell us?" 

“The trader made us promise not to tell anyone. He said 



266 


The Shining Mountains 


it would be great thing for two Arapahoe boys to sneak into 
enemy country and fool Utes. He told us Arapahoe chief 
would be heap proud of us. We vowed we would not come 
back without the map.” 

“That’s why you rummaged through our trunk after we 
came down here!” 

“Yes. How could we know that the bad Ute had made a 
mistake and instead of the little black book had got the— 
what you call it?” 

“Daguerreotype,” said Margie. “And of course you 
didn’t know. Nobody but Pony knew that the map had 
been cut out of the book and hidden behind the lining of the 
daguerreotype.” 

“Do you remember,” went on Running Whirlwind, “that 
time you made Wasani and me hide in the wagon?” 

“Well, I should say I do! Colorow nearly scared us out 
of our senses.” 

“You gave the box of looking glasses and beads to Colo' 
row. After that we not know if he have the little black book 
or if you found it first and put it away in your things. 
Many days we spied on the Ute lodges and trailed Colorow. 
Very slow and careful we had to be, but we could not see 
the little black book. So we followed your tracks down 
here.” 

“How funny and mixed up everything has been!” ex' 
claimed Margie. “If Jokum hadn’t broken the daguerreo' 
type, Wasani never would’ve found the map.” 

“No, we not look for just a little folded paper like that. 
But Wasani has sharp eyes. He showed me the paper after 



The Map of the Gold 


267 


you had gone in the cabin, and we saw it was the map. So 
we left right away to take it to the trader.” 

"And you didn’t even say good-by!” 

"We not want to answer questions. But I knew I would 
come back some time.” 

"How did you learn that story,” said Margie after a 
space, "about Pony and the map and the bad Ute?” 

Running Whirlwind. grew very sober. "The trader 
Thurston was sick last winter. Before he went to the spirit 
land, he called me to him and told me all this. And there 
was something else.” 

"Was it about Billy?” 

The boy nodded. "He tried hard to tell me, but the shad' 
ow people were calling him.” 

Silence fell upon them. In the rocks a woodchuck scolded. 
Margie smoothed a patch of earth with the side of her hand, 
traced a meaningless design, erased-it. "You said Thurston 
used a different name. What was it?” 

"Morgan.” 

"Morgan! Why that’s your father’s name!” 

"Yes.” 

"You mean Thurston and Clee Morgan were the same 
man? Was Thurston your father?” 

He bent his head in shame, but jerked it up again, his 
chin stern. "I never knew him till he came to the Arapahoe 
camp three snows ago and then the chief told me. I lived 
with him two years at the trading post. He very good to 
me. He gave me a gun and taught me many things. When 
I brought the map to him last fall he very sick. For many 



268 


The Shining Mountains 


sleeps I took care of him. I know he sorry for all the 
meanness he did.” 

“Don’t feel bad. Please don’t. I’m sure none of it was 
your fault.” 

“I must make up for it all I can. He try to tell me some' 
thing about that Billy. I think he want me to bring him to 
Pony. But I not know where he is.” 

“Never mind. We’ll find him somehow. Why, when 
Pony gets the gold from his mine he can hire a hundred 
scouts to go all over the country and hunt for Billy. I won' 
der which way is north on this map.” 

“Can you read it?” he asked anxiously. 

“Not very well. But just wait till Pony sees it! Come on, 
let’s hurry and find him!” 

She thrust the tintypes into her own pocket and looped 
the thong of the Little Bear around her neck for safekeep' 
ing. Running Whirlwind took the map. They raced for the 
Indian mesa where the prospector still had his camp. Yar' 
mony sat in front of his lodge by a wisp of fire. If he was 
surprised to see the Arapahoe he made no sign, but gave 
him greeting: 

“How!” 

What a different reception this year from last! Now the 
white girl’s friend was Yarmony’s as well. Running Whirl' 
wind stood straight and respectful and said, “How!” 

“Where’s Pony?” panted Margie. 

Yarmony’s one keen eye fastened on the Little Silver Bear 
which swung against the calico yoke of her apron. His 
dusky face that could be so expressionless became strangely 



The Map of the Gold 


269 


animated. He stood up and called Singing Grass. She came 
hurrying. She touched the Little Silver Bear with her plump 
brown fingers, touched it awesomely and jabbered fast 
throaty words. 

“Where you get?” demanded Yarmony. 

“From Running Whirlwind.” Margie gave the charm an 
impatient twitch. “But oh, where’s Pony?” 

The old chief looked over their heads at the hills as if 
he saw something they could not see. “Gone there!” He 
waved an arm west. 

The two young folk sped down the river trail. Uncle 
Henry and Dave were still in the flat working at the corral. 
Margie shouted to them that she was going to find Pony. 
Uncle Henry looked astonished to see Running Whirlwind 
and called something that she didn’t wait to hear. Tom’s 
eyes bulged out. He tumbled off the finished part of the 
fence and ran after them. 

“Hey, wait! Zat you, Running Whirlwind? Wa-ait!” 

They had to stop long enough to explain so he wouldn’t 
burst with curiosity. Then they all dashed on to find Pony. 
It was hard to keep up with Running Whirlwind. He 
traveled with the swift springy step of a forest creature as 
he followed the broad shoe-prints of a man and the sharp 
deep scallops made by a burro’s hoofs. Down the river, 
over the bluff, past the Frenchman’s camp. 

“Po—ny!” Margie shouted. “Yoodioo!” 

Through the sagebrush, along the rocky side hill. 
“Po—ny!” 

“There he is!” The Indian boy was first to spy him seated 



The Shining Mountains 


270 

on a cottonwood log in the gully, smoking his pipe and 
resting. His pick and gold pan lay beside a trickle of water. 
Music, the burro, graced near. 

In an avalanche of loose dirt and stones the three slid 
down the gravel bank. The Little Silver Bear bobbed out 
and caught on a bush. Margie yanked it loose and held it 
to keep it from swinging. 

“Pony!” she squealed. 

“Hullo! What’s a'chasin’ ye?” 

“We’ve got it! We’ve got it!” whooped Tom. 

The prospector recognised Running Whirlwind. His 
nose crinkled in dislike. “Wal, I see one o’ them pesky 
’Rapahoes has come back.” 

“Oh, Pony, he’s brought the map! Look!” 

The old man didn’t seem to hear. He tamped the 
“smokin’ ” into his pipe. “Pesky ’Rapahoes!” he grunted. 
“They better not—” 

“Pony, look!” Margie took the yellowed paper that Run- 
ning Whirlwind thrust into her grasp and held it for him 
to see. “Look! The map of the gold!” 

He stared at the crumpled sheet without understanding. 

“The map you hid in the back of the picture. Now you 
can find the mine you’ve been looking for so long!” 

“You know, the drawing the Frenchman made for you,” 
prompted Tom. 

“The—map—?” Gradually the words took meaning. 
Eagerness spread like a warm candle glow on the old man’s 
weathered face. “Ginger and bear’s grease!” He took the 
paper and peered at it closely. “How come you to—” 



The Map of the Gold 


271 


“Oh, Pony, which direction must we start?” 

He spread the fragile sheet upon his knee. A long time he 
studied the faint lines, whispering words through dry lips, 
“Here’s the crick—that dead tree—” The little group stood 
around him, their hearts thumping loudly. When he got 
up and clambered to the rim of the gully, they followed. 
He referred again to the drawing, wiped the back of his 
hand across his sweaty forehead and sat down on a rock 
suddenly, as if all the strength had gone out of his knees. 

“No use.” 

What a gulf of hoplessness in those words! 

“No use!” echoed Margie. 

“All these years I been thinkin’ thar must be some part 
o’ the map I’d fergot, but it’s jest like I remembered it. I 
don’t know no more ’n I did.” 

“Aw'W'W,” groaned the disappointed Tom. 

“The Frenchman that give it to me was purty sick and I 
guess he never quite finished it. The lines goes jest this fur 
and stops.” 

“Did you look hard? Maybe I can see—” Margie let go 
the Little Silver Bear which she had been tightly clutching 
and taking hold of the map bent her head close to his. Her 
quick movement sent the charm swinging forward on its 
string. The prospector jerked back. His whole frame stiff" 
ened. His eyes fixed on the odd talisman. He reached out a 
gnarled hand to touch it—slowly and hesitantly—as if he 
were afraid. 

“Pony! Don’t look like that!” begged the alarmed Margie. 
“Whatever is the matter?” 



Chapter Twenty 

LITTLE BEAR HEAP TELL UM 

“Where’d you git that?” 

Pony Wilson acted as if he saw a ghost. His voice was 
a harsh whisper. Margie frowned down her nose at the 
charm. 

“Running Whirlwind gave it to me. I had it all last 
summer. Didn’t you see it?” 

“How could he?” demanded Tom. “You kept it put away 
all the time.” 

Pony wasn’t looking at the Little Bear now. He was 
sitting hunched down inside his faded shirt, staring vacantly 
at the ground. 

Margie regarded him with growing concern. “What is 
it. Pony?” 

“That thar. It was his plaything—little Billy’s—” 

“Your little son Billy? Oh, Pony—” 

“His plaything,” husked Pony. “He wore it on a string 
around his neck the day he was stole. No Injuns ever would 
have took it from him. They’d have been afeared to. 
Thurston done that. Traded it to the ’Rapahoes fer some 
dirty redskin to wear. Got a-plenty fer it too, I’ll warrant.” 
He drooped his head in his hands. “Billy he’ll never come 
back to me now.” 

“I don’t know why you say that!” cried Margie. “What 
has a silly charm got to do with Billy coming back? What’s 
the difference if Thurston did trade it to the Indians? Or 


272 


Little Bear Heap Tell Um 


£73 

if the baby only lost it and some Arapahoe picked it up? 
That’s prob'ly what happened. Babies are always losin' 
things.” 

“This here was tied through a hole in his shirt so’s he 
couldn’t lose it.” 

Margie felt mighty sorry for the old prospector. She 
dropped down beside him and patted his arm. “Oh, Pony, 
dear Pony, we all wish we could help you find your Billy. 
What makes you think the Little Silver Bear—” 

“ ’Tain’t silver,” he muttered. “It come from that spoutin’ 
spring across the river. Reckon it’s only a rock or more 
likely, a couple rocks stuck together and coated with min' 
eral.” 

“Just like what Pa found, I betcha,” nodded Tom. 

“When I first fished it out,” went on Pony, “I figgered 
it was silver too, but it didn’t test right with a sulphur match 
and I soon see it wasn’t. When the Utes got sight of it they 
made a big fuss account of its funny shape. They claimed 
it was a sign from the Bear. Yarmony told me it was good 
medicine, and so jest fer fun I hung it around Billy’s little 
neck. He liked to play with it. The Injuns’d come and 
sit and look at it and talk about it. When Billy was 
stole, Yarmony said long as the Little Bear was with him 
he’d be all right, and some day the Little Bear’d lead him 
home to the Yampy. I come to think so too. All these years 
I been a'hopin.’ But now he’ll never come back.” 

Margie had been thinking with puckered brows. “Run' 
ning Whirlwind,” she demanded, “did your mother, Wib 
low Woman, ever tell you where she got the Little Bear?” 



The Shining Mountains 


274 

The tall lad shook his head. “No, but I think—” 

Pony’s attention shifted to him. “ ’Rapahoe!” he snorted. 
“ ’Rapahoe!” He lurched to his feet and shook his fist in 
the boy’s face. “The sneakinest Injuns ever! They knowed 
where my Billy was, but they wouldn’t tell me—his own 
paw. Set me on a false trail. You’re one of ’em. Git out o’ 
here! Git, I tell ye!” 

Running Whirlwind stood a moment stock still. The 
muscles in his jaws built tight white mounds. His hands 
clenched at his sides. Swiftly he wheeled and went crashing 
through the bushes. 

“Oh, don’t go off!” Margie plunged after him. The blase 
of anger in his eyes, the stubborn set of his head— Pony 
shouldn’t have made him mad! Pony didn’t know Running 
Whirlwind had come on purpose to help him. Would the 
Indian boy go clear away across the range, as he had gone 
before, without another word? 

“Oh, wait!” 

She rushed through the bushes, tripped on a loose shoe- 
string and skated on her elbows to land in a prickly clump 
of Oregon grape. Her mouth and eyes were full of dust. 
Dissily she sat up and coughed and wiped her heated face 
on her apron. 

Tom came to her. “Pony’s gone off too,” he complained. 
“If he don’t look the queerest! Kind of dased like. He even 
left his gold pan and pick. I brought ’em. And here’s the 
map.” 

“A lot of good it is!” said his sister crossly. 

“Well, it’s not my fault.” 




He shook his fist in the boy’s face 





































































Little Bear Heap Tell Um 


277 


Margie jerked at her shoe string. "Oh, dear, when I got 
the Little Silver Bear back this morning I had a feeling 
something nice was going to happen. But everything’s gone 
wrong!” She held the small charm stiffly in front of her and 
glared at it. 

"Maybe the Indians think you’re good medicine but I 
think you’re bad medicine! So there!” 

Tears of disappointment filled her eyes. Pony had counted 
on the charm’s bringing Billy back. And it hadn’t. No telh 
ing where that little lost boy was. Pony had counted on 
finding the gold too. She looked over the chunk of metal 
at the hills. Somewhere in them was the hidden mine. She 
felt resentment at those hills. They lay like lasy animals 
with their backs humped into the sky. That long one with 
the round head—she could almost see its sides breathe. Her 
blurred vision blended the small charm in her hand with 
the mountains beyond. She straightened suddenly and 
blinked hard. 

"Tom! Look!” 

"Look at what?” 

"The Little Bear!” 

"Well, I am!” 

"Now, look over at that long mountain. Do you see what 
I see?” 

He screwed his brows into a knot. "I don’t see nothin’.” 

"They’re alike—the Bear and that hill! They’re ’sactly 
the same shape. And the scratches—look, Tom!” She was 
so excited her words tumbled over each other. "The 
scratches are same as the gullies on that hill!” 



278 


The Shining Mountains 


“Aw, they couldn’t be,” said Tom, grabbing the charm. 

“They could if somebody made ’em! That deep scratch 
on the Little Bear’s shoulder is just like the first gully be' 
tween the round hill and the long one. And that pitted 
place on the Little Bear—you know what I think? I think 
it was put there to show where the gold isT 

“Geranium!” Tom squinted through one eye and then 
the other. “It does sorta look like—but who’d’ve done it?” 

“The Frenchman was the only one who knew where the 
gold was,” Tom reminded, “and he up an’ died before Pony 
ever found the Little Bear in the Steamboat spring.” 

“I don’t care. It’s a map plain as can be. And I betcha,” 
she jumped to her feet, “I betcha anything if we go to that 
gully and hunt, we’ll find the lost mine!” 

“Wouldn’t hurt to try. Say, if we could dig out a hatful 
of nuggets and surprise Pony—” Tom jammed the useless 
paper map into his pocket and picked up the prospector’s 
gold pan and pick. “Come on, let’s go over to that moun' 
tain.” 

Margie hastily knotted her shoelace. “We’ll never get 
there if we walk. We’d better go and catch up some horses. 
Besides, we have to find Running Whirlwind.” 

“That’s so,” said Tom. “Hurry!” 

They started back toward home and had not gone far 
when they saw Running Whirlwind stalking to meet them. 
His face was somber, his eyes deep and black. He had 
fought down his anger and was determined to see the busi' 
ness through. “I come back,” he said with a despairing 
shrug of his shoulders, “but I not know what to do!” 




Little Bear Heap Tell Um 


279 


Tom and Margie each caught him by an arm and hustled 
him along. Breathlessly they explained. 

The Indian boy’s features lighted. “Hah! Little Bear! 
It is a true sign! We find that gold and maybe Pony not 
hate me.” 

Pa and Ma were not home yet, and Uncle Henry and 
Dave had hitched up the mules and gone to haul more logs; 
so there was nobody to ask a lot of questions. Grabbing a 
couple of bridles from the shed, Tom ran to the flat to catch 
Chief and Monty. They didn’t want to be caught. “Bring 
a little salt!” he yelled. 

Margie dashed into the cabin to get some in a pan. As 
she brushed by the shelf in the corner, the daguerreotype 
caught her eye. Something made her pause. It seemed 
almost as though the girl in the frame had called out to her. 

Margie was so long appearing that Tom came to get the 
salt himself. “Say, what makes you look so funny?” 

“Nothing. I was just—” Her voice trailed off as she 
followed him through the door. 

They caught the horses and piled on bareback, Running 
Whirlwind on Chief and Tom and Margie on Monty. Rum 
ning Whirlwind carried the gold pan and the small pick. 

“That hill’s farther ’n I thought,” commented Tom when 
they had been riding for more than an hour. “We ever 
goin’ ter get there?” 

“It’s coming closer,” encouraged his sister. “Don’t you 
remember, the Frenchman told Pony the mine was half a 
day’s journey from their camp by the river.” 

“It not take us half a day,” said Running Whirlwind. 



280 


The Shining Mountains 


“We travel faster. Those prospectors walk, I think, and 
stop often to pan. We ride.” 

On they pushed, following one of the many game trails 
while the sun climbed high. None of them had ever been 
this far down valley before. A little band of antelope flicked 
away over a rise. A badger waddled to his hole and backed 
in hissing. A pair of wide-winged hawks made shadows on 
the sagebrush. The hill began to look different. It seemed 
to flatten out, and the adventurers could not decide which 
of two gulches corresponded to the right groove on the 
Little Bear. Anxiously they hurried on. 

After another hour they reached the first gulch. “There's 
water running down it,” frowned Margie. “The French' 
man told Pony a dry gulch.” 

“That little bit of stream will dry up in another moon,” 
said Running Whirlwind. 

“Geranium, it's gettin’ hot!” Tom passed his sleeve across 
his red face. 

“Tell you what,” said Margie, “let’s pan some sand at the 
mouth of each gulch and see which has gold in it. That’s 
the way the old prospectors did.” 

They tied Chief and Monty in the shade and fell to work. 
Running Whirlwind scooped sand into the pan and squatted 
by the water. Tom thought he knew all about how to wash 
gold—hadn’t he watched Pony?—and he kept telling the 
others what to do. He found it wasn’t so easy when his 
turn came. The pan was so heavy to roll that his arms 
got tired and his shoulders ached. But he kept manfully 
at his job. 



Little Bear Heap Tell Um 


281 


Three pairs of eyes watched every shift of the sand 
expecting to see fat yellow nuggets come into view. 

“Gold's heavy. It'll go to the bottom," panted Tom. “Got 
ter keep spillin' this other stuff a little at a time. Got ter 
keep shakin'." 

At last after endless maneuverings they reduced the gravel 
to a thin layer of fine silt. 

“Do you see anything?" asked Running Whirlwind. 

“Gold's awful hard to notice sometimes." Tom leaned so 
close his nose was almost in the pan. 

“Shake it around again," advised his sister. “We ought 
to find at least one nugget if there were as many of them 
as the Frenchman said " 

Not even the faintest glimmer of gold! 

Margie slapped with muddy hands at the mosquitoes that 
whined around her ears. “Must be the other gulch. Or 
else we didn't pan right. Let's just hunt for the prospect 
hole. It ought to be easy to see." 

“I go up that far gulch," suggested Running Whirlwind. 
“You go this one." 

They got on their horses again and searched another hour. 
Tom and Margie looked their eyes out. No sign of a hole. 
The gully they were following frayed into a dosen miniature 
furrows. 

“No use to go any farther," said Tom. “Nothin' here." 

“No, might as well go find Running Whirlwind. “I 
reckon he’s found it." 

But Running Whirlwind had not. “No hole here," he 
declared positively when they joined him. 



282 


The Shining Mountains 


Aching with disappointment, the three got off their horses 
and flopped down to rest in the shade of some aspens. They'd 
tried so hard! They'd all wanted so much to find Pony’s 
gold for him! Indifferently Margie let the mosquitoes bite. 
Her face was itchy and blistered anyway from sunburn. She 
should have worn a sunbonnet. Ma was always telling her. 
There was a wicked red line down one arm where a rose 
bush had scratched her. She wouldn’t have minded any' 
thing if only they’d found the gold. She’d been so sure the 
marks on the Little Bear were a map. Maybe they weren’t. 
Maybe it was just happenstance that the charm and the hill 
were the same shape. 

“Wisht we had some dinner,” said Tom. “Must be ’way 
after noon. Pa’ll be cornin’ to hunt us pretty soon.” 

Running Whirlwind took a strip of jerky out of his 
pocket and whittled some for each of them. The dry smoked 
deer meat made them thirsty, so they dragged themselves 
over to a trickle of water to get a drink. Since this stream 
was even smaller than that in the first gulch, they had to 
hunt to find a place deep enough to dip their cupped hands. 

“Here’s a little pool,” called Tom. 

The thread of water moved slowly over a rock bench and 
dribbled into a round dark basin. When Margie and Tom 
had slaked their thirst, Running Whirlwind lay flat and put 
his lips to the pool. Margie stared at the reflection of his 
face, framed in the dark oval of the rocks. To her mind 
came a blurred remembrance of something— 

At that moment a shadow fell upon the wall of the gulch. 
Looking up, she saw Yarmony on the rim above. Yarmony 



Little Bear Heap Tell Um 


283 


with shining otter fur bound in his braids and a marvel of 
beadwork on his breast. He rode his pony down to them. 
Singing Grass followed on her pinto. 

"How!" He raised his hand in grave greeting. His one 
gleaming eye fixed itself expectantly on the small charm that 
Margie wore. "Little Bear heap tell um!” He paused as if 
to listen. The breeze stirred the aspens. A green'tailed 
towhee flirted under the bushes with a note of husky ques' 
tion. "Little Bear maybeso tell um more!” 




Chapter Twenty^one 
THE SHINING MOUNTAINS 

Margie, Tom and Running Whirlwind had stumbled to 
their feet. 

“How’d you know we were here?” blurted out Tom. 

“Yarmony see.” 

Singing Grass edged her pinto close to Margie, leaned 
down to stroke the Little Bear. Under her breath she was 
chanting a guttural strain that must have been a song of 
pleasure, for her broad face fairly glistened. 

“Many snows Injun wait,” Yarmony said. “Bear heap 
know. Bear tell white girl.” 

Margie gave her tumbled hair one vehement shake to get 
it out of her way. She gripped the Little Bear with both 
her hands. Her pulses were going faster, faster to keep up 
with her racing thoughts. She rocked forward on her toes. 

“Yes, Little Bear did tell me. How Yarmony know?” 

“Yarmony heap fix um!” 

“You mean—you mean you made these scratches on the 
Bear?” 

The Ute nodded. “Show where white men dig,” he ex' 
plained. 

“Great geranium!” Tom struck his fist in his hand. 
“ ’Course the Injuns’d know where the gold was! Why ’n’t 
we think of that before?” 

“Many snows ago white men come here. Utes no like. 
Run um off. Afraid too many whites come, taking hunting 
284 


The Shining Mountains 


285 


ground. Chiefs make powwow. Utes no must tell where 
yellow rock." 

"Then," said the girl, "all these years while Pony has 
hunted so hard, you knew! I thought Pony was your friend!" 

"Heap prend!" The chief made wide gestures. "Him 
same like Injuns." He fell back into a jumble of Ute. 

"He say," interpreted Running Whirlwind, able to read 
the sign language if he did not understand all the words, 
"Pony one time fight big grimly that go after Yarmony. 
Save chief’s life." 

"Betcha that’s where Pony got that bear claw he carries," 
said Tom. 

Yarmony went on, "Pony heap prend. Injun wantum find 
yellow rock. But Utes all make powwow—’’ His coppery 
face was earnest. "Yarmony feel heap bad. Tell Little Bear 
about yellow rock. Bear heap wise. Maybeso tell Pony." 

Fearing he had not made himself clear, he attempted fur- 
ther enlightenment. He had wanted to show Pony the gold, 
but had not dared betray his promise to his tribe. He had 
felt greatly troubled. When Pony had found the odd silver 
rock in the spouting spring, Yarmony had felt that the pow' 
erful Spirit of the Bear had sent an answer to his problem. 
He had been able to see what his white friend had not seen— 
that the strange rock was meant to be a little bear. 

Besides, he had noticed that the charm and the hill where 
the men had dug for yellow stones were "heap much same" 
—two humps, one little and one big. So he had shaped the 
charm to an even closer likeness. (He showed with his 
hands how it had taken much slow, patient work with a 



286 


The Shining Mountains 


very hard flint.) Finally, he had traced the line of the gulch 
and made a little hole, to mark where the gold was. 

Margie wondered how he had done all this without Pony’s 
knowing. Then she remembered that Billy had often been 
left to the care of the Ute squaws while his father went 
hunting. And of course Billy always wore the charm. Yar- 
mony had had opportunity a-plenty to carry out his plans. 

Twelve years the Little Bear had kept the secret which 
today she had blundered on. But where was the gold? 

“You sure this is the right place?” Tom asked Yarmony 
dubiously. 

“Heap here!” The chief pointed to the ground. “Little 
Bear speak true.” 

“But there ain’t any prospect hole.” 

“Must have been filled up,” said Margie. “We better 
try panning right here.” 

Running Whirlwind grabbed the gold pan. “We find 
some of those nuggets to show Pony!” 

Yarmony and his squaw went back to the rim of the gulch 
where the breeze was cooler, and settled themselves to 
watch. 

There was not enough water in the little pool to make 
the washing of the sand easy. But Running Whirlwind 
worked with feverish care. Finding Pony’s mine meant a 
lot to him. It meant a debt of honor partly paid. Hadn’t 
he promised himself to make up to Pony for the meanness 
Clee Morgan, the trader, had done him? Hadn’t he, Clee 
Morgan’s son, vowed a mighty vow? 

The sun tilted westward. The shadows inched longer. 



The Shining Mountains 


287 


“Do you see any gold?” cried Margie. 

“Naw,” gulped Tom, “not even a—a smidgeon!” 

Running Whirlwind stirred the sand with his finger. He 
shook his head. 

“Then the Frenchman and his party must have got it all!” 
Margie couldn’t keep her chin from trembling. What a day 
of disappointments! Monty and Chief pawed and whinnied 
for someone to come and untie them. Up on the rim of the 
gully Yarmony and Singing Grass were talking in uneasy 
tones. 

Suddenly the squaw was beside her, tugging at her sleeve 
and grunting a string of Ute. “You come!” she urged. 

Margie looked at her dully. 

“You come!” Singing Grass gave her words a sharp accent 
of command. She pulled the girl roughly by the arm. 

Margie was obliged to follow her up the bank. At the top 
Yarmony stood rigid peering at something in the valley be" 
low. She looked where he pointed and saw two figures 
moving slowly along the trail. One was a small mouse'coh 
ored burro, half "hidden under a pack; the other was a stumpy 
little man who walked with a peculiar, shuffling gait. 

“Why, it’s Pony! Where’s he going?” 

The Indians were silent. 

Margie’s gaze grew intent. “You don’t think—you don’t 
think he’s going away —for good?” 

She didn’t need an answer. The lump in her own throat 
told her. Pony was going away from the valley. And he 
was never coming back. The measured defeat in his steps, 
the tired stoop of his shoulders— 



288 


The Shining Mountains 


She flung herself on Singing Grass’s pinto that stood near, 
and gave it a whack with the flat of her hand. The wiry 
pony spurted down the hill. A jack rabbit dived out of the 
way. A chipmunk flattened against a bush with a squeak 
of terror. She reined up across the trail in front of the old 
prospector. 

“Pony, you’re not—you’re not—” 

“Eh?” He hadn’t even heard her coming. In his eyes 
was the look of far bleak deserts and barren hills. West he 
was headed, beyond the things he knew; beyond the friend' 
ly green mountains, and the talking river. 

“Oh, Pony, you’re not going away!” 

“Yep, I’m a'driftin’.” 

“We’ll be dreadful lonesome! Danny’ll cry for you.” 

“He’ll fergit.” 

“He loves you almost best of anyone. He’ll cry himself 
sick.” 

Dogged silence. 

She tried a new tack. “And there’s the Frenchman’s 
mine.” 

What wouldn’t she have given to be able to say, “We’ve 
found it for you, Pony! What you’ve been looking for so 
many years. Bushels of nuggets! I can take you right and 
show you!” But to have to tell him they’d found the mine 
and there was nothing in it; that the Frenchman and his 
partners had taken it all— 

Tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh, Pony, we’ve been 
tryin’ awful hard to help you. B'but we couldn’t find any 
gold.” 



The Shining Mountains 


289 


“Thar, lass. ’Twarn’t meant fer ole Pony. ’Sides, what 
would I want of gold now? Used ter want it fer Billy.” 

Billy. Year after year Pony had trudged back to the 
Yampa with the springtime, believing that some day his little 
lost son would come to him; believing in a Bear charm be' 
cause the Indians did. Now the charm had appeared in the 
Yampa, but it hadn’t brought Billy. Pony’s faith was broken. 
The spark was gone from his eyes. He shuffled his feet. 

“Wal, I’ll be gittin’ on.” 

Margie’s heart ached with pity. If only the Little Bear 
were really true magic! Her fingers clasped it so hard that 
the buckskin thong pulled on her neck. Billy’s plaything. 
The words Pony had spoken that very morning crowded 
back into her mind: “No Injuns ever would have took it 
from him. They’d have been afeared to!” Suppose nobody 
had ever taken it from Billy—not even the mean trader. 
Suppose— 

She rolled off the pinto and grabbed the drab shoulders 
and shook them. “Wait!” she gasped. “Oh, Pony, you’ve 
got to listen to me!” 

To Margie it seemed an endless distance from the trail 
to the rim of the gulch. A moment ago when she had 
persuaded Pony to come with her she had felt pretty sure. 
But now, toiling up the slope with him stalking beside her, 
his breath coming in agitated gulps, she began to be afraid. 
What if she were wrong? With one hand she led the pinto 
and with the other she gripped Pony’s arm. 

Above them were four people watching. Tom and Run' 



290 


The Shining Mountains 


ning Whirlwind had climbed up to see what all the com" 
motion was about. And there was Yarmony, stolid as an 
old pine tree, and beside him Singing Grass. Her squat body 
rocked back and forth as she chanted singsong words. 

Pony leaped ahead of his guide, sweeping the waiting 
group with his flashing eyes. 

“You said—he—you told me—” 

“Yes, Pony!” 

“Where’s he at? Where’s my Billy?’’ 

Margie’s knees felt as shaky as jelly, but this was no time 
to hesitate. She went to Running Whirlwind and drew him 
toward Pony. 

The prospector recoiled. “What you bringin’ that ’Rapa" 
hoe to me fer? I want my son!’’ 

“Wait, Pony,’’ Margie caught his frayed sleeve, hanging 
on to it: “you must let me tell you!’’ 

Yarmony nodded ponderously. 

Singing Grass edged nearer, her moccasins making a faint 
scuff, scuff, through the short brush. 

Margie’s words came like small wind flurries. “When 
Thurston took your little Billy, he left him with the Ara" 
pahoes. He gave him to a squaw named Willow Woman 
to take care of.’’ 

She felt the boy stiffen, and sent him a reassuring look. 

“I expect Billy was so cute and nice the squaw didn’t 
want to give him up; so when his real father came looking 
for him she hid him away. He grew up with the Arapahoes 
and became fine and straight and tall, like Running Whirl" 
wind here.” 



The Shining Mountains 


291 


“Great geranium, Sis! You don’t mean—” 

“Yes, I do!” cried Margie, and with a quick movement 
she clasped the lad’s hand over Pony’s. “Running Whirl' 
wind isn’t an Indian at all. He’s Billy!” 

There was a moment of astonished silence all around. 

Pony jerked back. “That’s not him!” 

Running Whirlwind’s face had paled beneath its tan. He 
opened his lips but no sound came. His hands fell to his 
sides. 

Singing Grass darted to him. Seising his left wrist, she 
turned the palm uppermost. 

“Thees Beelly!” she grunted in positive tones, and her 
brown fingers traced the faint white line of a three'cor' 
nered scar. “Papoose heap hurt um.” 

A strange look came over Pony. He took a hesitant step 
forward and bent close to stare. The stillness was so deep 
Margie could hear the thin trickle of the water into the pool 
below. 

“I recollect,” he quavered. “Little Billy fell on the tent 
pin and gashed up his hand. And I brung him to Yarmony’s 
squaw—” 

The breese rustled the quaking aspen leaves. Music 
shoved a soft nose against his master and stomped impatient' 
ly. And Pony Wilson’s knotted fingers closed around the 
boy’s. 

“Son,” he whispered. “Son!” 

The cool of evening was settling upon the Yampa Valley. 
Uncle Henry and Dave were fishing down by the Deep Hole. 



292 


The Shining Mountains 


The big trout bit better just about dark. From her seat on 
the chopping log by the woodpile, Margie could see the 
Indian fires twinkling on the mesa. The Utes had made their 
camp closer to the cabin this year. White'vested swallows 
wheeled and coasted through the golden foam of sunset. A 
kildeer ran along the trail to the iron spring, teetered on 
spindling legs, and then rose above the rushes with a piercing 
cry. 

“They ought to be cornin’ now,” squinted Tom, who was 
perched beside his sister. “We’ve had supper an’ every' 
thing! It’ll soon be dark.” 

“Twelve years,” said Pa, pausing in his thoughtful pac' 
ing back and forth. “Ay Jonathan, son, they’d have a lot 
to talk about. You did right to slip off and leave them by 
themselves.” 

“I’m glad we left Monty and Chief so they can ride 
home,” said the boy. “Yarmony and Singing Grass didn’t 
mind if we came with them.” 

“If we’d only found the gold everything would have 
turned out just like a story,” sighed Margie. 

“I think enough’s happened for one day.” Ma sat in the 
doorway with a shawl over her shoulders and Danny curled 
in her lap. 

“Say, Sis,” demanded Tom, “how’d you know—” 

“I didn’t for sure. I guessed, and I was scared to pieces 
maybe I was wrong!” 

“What made you guess?” 

“Well, this morning when I went into the cabin to get 
salt for the horses, I saw Cinthy’s picture and it struck me 



The Shining Mountains 


293 


all at once how much Running Whirlwind looked like her. 
I thought it must be just my imagination. Then this after" 
noon when we stopped to drink at that little pool I saw 
Running Whirlwind’s reflection in the water. With that 
frame of rocks around his face he made me think of Cinthy 
again. But I was so tired I didn’t trust my eyes.” 

“But when you knew Pony was lightin’ out—” prompted 
the boy. 

“Why, I had to take the risk. I reckoned nothing would 
make him stay ’cept Billy. And if Running Whirlwind was 
Billy—” 

“Seems we should’ve seen right off that boy wasn’t an 
Indian,” commented Pa. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ma. “He has black hair and 
eyes and a naturally dark complexion, and he’s burned by 
the sun.” 

“He did look a little different from Wasani,” remarked 
Margie, “but we thought that was because he was only 
half "Indian.” 

At that moment Jokum, who was gracing by the springs, 
lifted his head and cocked his ears toward the valley trail. 
Two bobbing black specks were visible for a second on the 
sky line, then vanished in the nearer bushes. 

“Here they come!” yelled Tom, and ran to meet them. 
Margie hung back, feeling a strange embarrassment. The 
prospector was in the lead. He was riding Chief, and Run" 
ning Whirlwind was on Monty. Music trotted patiently 
behind. Danny, struggling out of Ma’s lap, made a beeline 
for Pony. There was plenty of spring to the old moun" 



294 


The Shining Mountains 


taineer’s knees now as he swung from the saddle and tossed 
the baby in his arms. 

“Show ’em what we got, son!” he exulted. What a world 
of concealed tenderness was in that last word. 

Running Whirlwind, smiling broadly, grounded Monty’s 
reins and unknotted Pony’s old red bandana which he had 
been carrying. They all pressed around him to see what 
was in it. 

“Just looks like three or four little pebbles,” muttered 
Tom. 

“Why,” gasped Margie, “is it—are they—” 

“Gold!” shrilled Pony. “She’s thar, shore as shootin’!” 

“Gold!” they chorused. 

“But we didn’t find any. I don’t see—” 

“A small rock slide had come down there,” explained 
Running Whirlwind. “We not dig deep enough. You know 
that pool where we drank? That was the prospect hole 
filled up with rocks. Father and I—” he colored and re' 
peated the words huskily, “Father and I drained it with his 
shovel and found these. We all go back tomorrow.” 

“And you young uns are to share in it,” declared Pony. 
“You can be thinkin’ what you want.” 

“A silverunounted saddle!” whooped Tom. “And a bar' 
rel o’ syrup!” 

Everybody laughed. 

“And you, lass, what for you?” asked the prospector. 
“Dancin’ school, I’ll warrant!” He beamed at her as if that 
were the finest thing he could offer. 

“Oh, Pony—” for all the pent'up yearnings of the past 



295 


The Shining Mountains 

year tumbled breathlessly from Margie's lips— “would you 
mind if I took painting lessons instead?" 

“Paintin' lessons!" Pony looked pulled. 

“Yes. You know—learn how to make pictures! Colum¬ 
bines and roses and red leaves and sunsets and trees and 
horses. And I could make a picture of you, Pony!" 

“Ginger and bear's grease!" 

“How you going to learn painting when there isn’t any 
teacher here?" demanded Tom. “There isn't anybody but 
us and the Utes." 

“There’s Jody Havely in Missouri!" Margie’s words 
tripped over each other. “Pa, last winter you said I could 
go back to Missouri when we raised enough cattle and made 
enough money. You did say so, Pa!" 

“Ay Jonathan!" Pa nodded. 

“Now, maybe with my share of the mine—oh, Ma, you 
wouldn't care if I—" 

Ma looked down, slowly smoothing out the frill of her 
apron. “I don't know but it would be a good thing for you 
to visit the kin in Sedalia a while," she said. “My mind’s 
been on it considerable. You’re a young girl just growing 
up and you ought to be with civilized folks and have ad¬ 
vantages. Maybe brother Fred will be going home this sum¬ 
mer or next fall on the steam cars. You could travel with 
him. Your pa could take you as far as Denver City." 

“Oh, Ma!" 

“Meanwhile, we can send a little of the gold out to 
Georgetown when the wagon goes for provisions and get 
some alpaca to make you a new dress so you’ll be ready." 




296 


The Shining Mountains 


Margie threw her arms around her mother. “You do 
understand! And couldn’t we send some gold to get an' 
other drawing pad and pencils and a color box? I’ve used 
up all I had. Things happen every day that I want to re' 
member on paper. I’ll sketch them the best I can; then, 
when I really learn how in Missouri, I can come home to the 
dear old Yampa and make a sort of picture history of the 
country—Indian tepees, the mud fort across the river, our 
log cabin—” 

Her dreams mounted on wings, only to spiral back to 
earth at an anxious thought. “Maybe,” she said, “there 
won’t be enough gold to pay my fare all the way across the 
plains to Sedalia.” 

Pony snorted. “Don’t you pester your head about that, 
lass! I tell you, there’s hatfuls of nuggets! Enough to take 
you clean to Africky if you want! Plenty for paintin’ and 
dancin’ and whatever you like. Ole Pony ain’t forgittin’. 
If it hadn’t been for you— And Danny’s to have his share, 
too. You betcha!” 

Margie took a rapt breath of the cool sweet air. Her 
gaze traveled over the friendly green mounds of the springs, 
over the willows and sagebrush of the valley to the gold' 
misted mountains. 

“How shining they are!” she exclaimed in awe. “I didn’t 
know that even a sunset could make them look like that.” 

Pa put his big warm hand on her shoulder. “I reckon,” 
he said gently, “it’s happiness in a body’s eyes that really 
makes things shine.” 
































































































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